Around the turn of the 18th century, a few Sanskrit authors began to take an interest in the sarangi and other contemporary bowed instruments. Ahobala, writing about the pinaki veena, obviously refers to several types of instruments: “The pinaki is half the length of the other veenas. It is played with a bow (dhanush) made from the hair of a horse-tail. The strings are made of silk. The womb is made of either a coconut shell, wood or bronze. The sides of the left-hand fingers touch [the strings of] the instrument. The bow is manipulated according to the syllables.”

Although the Sangitaparijata does not mention the sarangi, it is evident that the author intends to portray bowed instruments, including the sarangi. The use of the term ‘garbha’ (womb) to indicate only a cup or gourd resonator seems unlikely. From the description of its length in particular, it is doubtful that the old pinaki is being described. The length is said to be half the size of the usual veena, a feature common to most Indian lutes. Nor is the characteristic bow shape of the original pinaki mentioned.

More significant, however, is Ahobala’s remark about using “the sides of the fingers”. Here he refers unmistakably to the characteristic left-hand technique of the sarangi and ravanahasta. And when he adds that “the bow is manipulated according to the syllables”, he seems to emphasise its role in vocal accompaniment. Still, we can question whether it was the voice of the fiddler himself or that of other singers he accompanied.

Why does Ahobala avoid using the terms sarangi or ravanahasta and try to mislead us, when he obviously describes these instruments? It is a marked tendency of Sanskrit authors to refer to ancient practices and retain obsolete terms, even when their meaning has changed. In this particular case, Ahobala prefers to use the term pinaki because it had the status of an ancient veena, whilst the sarangi did not. The sarangi originated as a humble instrument of the common man, and since it was played mainly by Muslim musicians, it was not worthy of mention by a pandit like Ahobala. While describing the rabab, he goes one step further and simply devises a new name, probably because he could not find an appropriate ancient one. He calls it ‘ravavaha’ (meaning that which carries sound). The similarity between the ‘rabab’ and ‘ravavaha’ is indeed a praiseworthy example of his inventive genius. 

It is not known where Ahobala composed his important treatise. That sarangi players had already dispersed southwards and eastwards is demonstrated by various sources. A manuscript of Nur al-Din Muhammad Tahir Zuhuri’s Saqinama from the Deccan, dated 1685, contains a unique illustration figuring twelve musicians who play a variety of Persian and Indian instruments, including a sarangi. Zuhuri was one of the greatest poets of the time and spent the last years of his life in Bijapur, at the court of Sultan Ibrahim Adil Shah II (1580-1625). Although he lists a number of instruments, the sarangi is excluded. Again, this suggests that only in the second half of the 17th century, when this manuscript was completed, did the sarangi become recognised as a stringed instrument used in Hindustani classical music. 

The process of acceptance and adaptation did not happen overnight and, even in the 18th century, most musicologists ignored the sarangi. A notable exception was poet Purushottama Mishra, who wrote the Sangitanarayana on behalf of Gajapati Narayana Deva, the ruler of the Khemundi kingdom in Odisha. Since Mishra is the first and only Sanskrit author to raise this instrument to the status of a veena, discussing it in detail (only six instruments are described), we may assume that he, or his patron, had a special liking for the sarangi.

This instrument can be made of blackwood, jackwood or salwood. It is three spans in length. The head is 15 angulas [in length], in the shape of a cobra’s hood, with the stringholder in the centre. It ‘becomes gradually narrower in the throat region, after which comes a protrusion. Below this is the neck which is 17 [or 10] angulas long. It is larger at the base and tapers down towards the end, and is more or less rounded. The interior portion of the head in the front and the back side of the neck and chest are hollow. The pegbox of the sarangi is rectangular. It is 6 angulas long by 4 angulas wide, hollow and 4 angulas deep. In three holes are placed the three pegs. The upper end is decorated by a topknot like a demigod. 

The head is covered with skin, like the kacchapi veena [rabab]. On the skin table rests the bridge, which is the size of a thumb with three notches [for the strings]. On the tip of the string holder there is a bud to which the end-pin is attached. The three strings are arranged in due order [of thickness] and made from silk thread. The bow (dhanush) is made from a strip of bamboo, 30 angulas long. The strings of the bow are made from horsehair, which is rubbed with resin from the sandal tree. The strings are played with a bow. The sarangi should be played according to instruction from experts.

Nearly every part of the sarangi is minutely described, and measurements are given. Yet it is not easy to imagine exactly what it looked like. Probably it resembled a present-day chikara, because the author says that the ‘head’ (i.e. resonator or what we call ‘belly’) is shaped like a cobra’s hood. The chikara is related to the rabab, and the instrument in question still had the crescent-shaped protrusion between the neck and resonator (he calls it ‘ears’), so characteristic of lutes belonging to this family. This ‘collar’ can also be recognised in a painting from Bundi (facing page), where a girl appears to tune a bowed instrument which has now become obsolete.

Mishra’s terminology deserves further attention. His sarangi has a head, a throat, ears, a neck and a chest. It is almost like the bust of a human being, and it must have been quite common to conceive of a sarangi in this way. There is a chikara in my possession, whose resonator is carved in the shape of a smiling face, probably that of Bhairava. If one thinks about it, there is a deep logic behind this analogy with the human body. It is the head and the throat which produce sound, not the belly. This is why musicians also talk about the voice of the sarangi, and why they always say there is no instrument which can reproduce the human voice better than the sarangi.

No instrument was more suited to echo the emotional songs of love and love-making than the sarangi. A witness to this in the east of India was John Burnell, travelling through Bengal in 1712. But what a poor understanding he had of the music he heard: 

Cojey Surratt [Khwaja lsrail Sarhad], a merchant ... resident in Calcutta, paid us a visit in the aforesaid willock and brought with him his musick consisting of a Georgian violin, two small kettle drums and the like number of hautboys with which he entertained us. The instruments were costly and of curious workmanship. To the violin the drums were added in concert assisted with the voice of the musicians [sic], whose ill tun’d notes and imperfect cadence made most lamentable discord.

The Dutchman J. S. Stavorinus, travelling in Bengal between 1768 and ’71, also noted “an instrument resembling a violin”, which was used to accompany the singing girls. Most probably it was a sarangi because, as we will see, the sarangi had become the favourite instrument of women singers.

It seems that sarangi players, who had settled in the cities, soon discovered that it was virtually impossible to compete with rabab and tanbur players, let alone with the aristocratic binkars. They must have realised that in order to make a reasonable living, the only solution was to associate with courtesans. As singing and echoing their own songs on the sarangi had for centuries been the main occupation of these bards, it was not difficult for them to accompany the songs of female vocalists. These women must have welcomed the wistful sound of the sarangi, which blended so well with their voices and gave them support and inspiration.

Through their association with famous courtesans, sarangi players were able to participate in musical sittings and enter the courts. In this way, they began to be known in the world of classical music, and the move from rural to urban society was complete. Sarangi players, however, did not have the status of vocalists nor instrumentalists; they did not belong to the category of solo performers and were relegated to a subordinate position. By accepting the status of accompanists, their role as background musicians, playing second fiddle, seemed once and forever defined.

This article first appeared in its entirety in the monograph, The Voice of the Sarangi, published as a combined issue of the NCPA Quarterly Journal in September, December 1986 and March 1987 (Volumes XV & XVI, Issues 3, 4 & 1).