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Nad: Understanding Raga Music
This book is perhaps the first comprehensive guide to understanding all the aspects and finer nuances of Hindustani classical music. It is aimed at the serious listener, that is, someone who may not have had any formal lessons himself in this performing art, but who, nevertheless, has picked up an initial interest in listening to classical music, and is, therefore, seeking to know more about its underlying structure, system and traditions. By explaining in a straightforward and extremely readable style, the basic features of Indian music, how time and melody are structured, the main principles of raga delineation and development, and the various genres and styles of vocal as well as instrumental performances, the book aims to enhance the serious listener's understanding of Hindustani music. This book includes a glossary of musical terms, a select discography and a select bibliography.
- GenresMusic
380 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 1998
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
July 9, 2025
Nād: Understanding Raga Music by Sandeep Bagchee came into my life in 2012 like a gently struck tanpura string—resonant, humbling, and oddly comforting. Gifted to me by Mr. Chandroday Ghosh, a music mentor whose presence in my life was as formative as a rāga’s vadi–samvadi relationship, this book wasn’t just a read — it was a primer into listening. And more than that, it was an initiation into a worldview where sound isn't just sensation, but suggestion.
At the time, I had just started taking raga seriously — not as a passive admirer of performance, but as a student of intent. And Nād was perfectly pitched to that aspiration. Sandeep Bagchee writes not as an esoteric scholar locked in ivory towers, nor as a commercial commentator trying to dumb things down. He speaks like a well-read, grounded guru-bandhu, someone who’s been through the grammar, felt the music, and now wants you to truly hear.
What made this book special — and still does — is its elegant simplicity. Bagchee begins at the beginning: nāda, the primordial vibration, the sonic principle of creation. From there, he moves toward the structure of Indian classical music — the svara, saptak, thaat, rāga, tala, and improvisational forms like alaap, jod, gat, tan. But always with clarity. Always with a listener’s intuition guiding the scholar’s pen.
What stood out to me most was his treatment of rāga not merely as a melodic scaffold, but as an emotive and temporal experience. A rāga is not just a scale. It has a time of day, a mood, a curve of approach. And this book explains that subtly — not by throwing Sanskrit at you, but by coaxing you into an attentiveness that becomes second nature.
There’s a section where Bagchee explains the idea of rasa in music — not in an abstract aesthetic theory kind of way, but with concrete examples: why Raga Marwa evokes tension, why Yaman feels expansive. I remember pausing at those pages and trying to listen to those ragas anew, to check if my ears had matured enough to register what the text hinted at. That back-and-forth between reading and listening — between concept and vibration — became a cherished habit.
Another gem is the way he discusses the difference between Hindustani and Carnatic systems — not as rival cousins, but as alternate philosophies of the same sonic inquiry. As someone who was more exposed to Hindustani music at the time, the book nudged me toward appreciating Carnatic rhythms and microtonal rigor with less anxiety and more awe.
It’s not a heavy book. Not a flamboyant one. No footnote battles, no intimidating diagrams. But it’s wise. It’s quietly pedagogic — the way good gurus are. It respects your ignorance, it celebrates your curiosity. I remember carrying it in my bag like a talisman for months, underlining passages on raagasamay, marking notes on vistar and laykari. I’d go back to certain sections before attending live concerts — the way a pilgrim refreshes their mantras before reaching the sanctum.
Looking back, Nād was my tuning fork. It taught me how to align not just pitch, but perception. How to understand that listening is not passive absorption but active surrender. That rāga is not a set of notes, but a way of entering time. That music, especially Indian classical music, is not for consumption — it’s for contemplation.
So yes — it was a gift. From a mentor. And through that, from a lineage. A lineage of listening. A lineage where every student must, at some point, close the book... and open the ear.
At the time, I had just started taking raga seriously — not as a passive admirer of performance, but as a student of intent. And Nād was perfectly pitched to that aspiration. Sandeep Bagchee writes not as an esoteric scholar locked in ivory towers, nor as a commercial commentator trying to dumb things down. He speaks like a well-read, grounded guru-bandhu, someone who’s been through the grammar, felt the music, and now wants you to truly hear.
What made this book special — and still does — is its elegant simplicity. Bagchee begins at the beginning: nāda, the primordial vibration, the sonic principle of creation. From there, he moves toward the structure of Indian classical music — the svara, saptak, thaat, rāga, tala, and improvisational forms like alaap, jod, gat, tan. But always with clarity. Always with a listener’s intuition guiding the scholar’s pen.
What stood out to me most was his treatment of rāga not merely as a melodic scaffold, but as an emotive and temporal experience. A rāga is not just a scale. It has a time of day, a mood, a curve of approach. And this book explains that subtly — not by throwing Sanskrit at you, but by coaxing you into an attentiveness that becomes second nature.
There’s a section where Bagchee explains the idea of rasa in music — not in an abstract aesthetic theory kind of way, but with concrete examples: why Raga Marwa evokes tension, why Yaman feels expansive. I remember pausing at those pages and trying to listen to those ragas anew, to check if my ears had matured enough to register what the text hinted at. That back-and-forth between reading and listening — between concept and vibration — became a cherished habit.
Another gem is the way he discusses the difference between Hindustani and Carnatic systems — not as rival cousins, but as alternate philosophies of the same sonic inquiry. As someone who was more exposed to Hindustani music at the time, the book nudged me toward appreciating Carnatic rhythms and microtonal rigor with less anxiety and more awe.
It’s not a heavy book. Not a flamboyant one. No footnote battles, no intimidating diagrams. But it’s wise. It’s quietly pedagogic — the way good gurus are. It respects your ignorance, it celebrates your curiosity. I remember carrying it in my bag like a talisman for months, underlining passages on raagasamay, marking notes on vistar and laykari. I’d go back to certain sections before attending live concerts — the way a pilgrim refreshes their mantras before reaching the sanctum.
Looking back, Nād was my tuning fork. It taught me how to align not just pitch, but perception. How to understand that listening is not passive absorption but active surrender. That rāga is not a set of notes, but a way of entering time. That music, especially Indian classical music, is not for consumption — it’s for contemplation.
So yes — it was a gift. From a mentor. And through that, from a lineage. A lineage of listening. A lineage where every student must, at some point, close the book... and open the ear.
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June 20, 2021dfsfasfasdfasdfsfasfsafsdfasdf
May 1, 2012
Very readable. One of the best introductory books for Indian classical music.
Want to read
September 10, 2013I think its a good book for indian music.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews