There are books about music, and then there are books that feel like music, books that hold a certain cadence, a slow intensifying raga-like swell, a sense of breath that travels between silence and revelation. "The Call of Music" belongs to the later category. Priya Purushothaman attempts something deceptively simple yet emotionally demanding, to capture not the performance of Hindustani music, but the people who breathe life into it, often far from applause, stages, and limelight.
This is not just a cultural document. It is a collection of lived experiences, of caste and inheritance, of gender and geography, of devotion and rebellion. What emerges is a portrait of classical music not as a relic frozen in reverence, but as a living, aching, evolving organism.
One of the strongest thematic threads is the weight of lineage. Those born into musical families carry both privilege and pressure, the expectation to uphold a gharana’s name, to embody a legacy that is larger than their own voice. She captures this without romanticization. These musicians often feel trapped between reverence and reinvention.
This is where the book shines, it refuses to portray classical inheritance as a halo. It shows it for what it is, burden, blessing, and battleground.
Some of the most affecting chapters are the ones where women vocalists confront the quiet misogyny embedded in the tradition. The gender bias is not loud; it is insidious, lurking in the repertoire they’re allowed to learn, the mentors assigned to them, the way audiences assess their “purity” before their artistry.
Perhaps the most powerful chapter revolves around the sarangi player negotiating caste identity and religious tension. Hindustani music, often celebrated as "pure" heritage, carries within it a history of exclusion, invisibility, and erasure. She does not flinch from this reality.
Finally, each story circles back to the same axis, surrender. Devotion not as ritual, but as a way of existing in the world. These musicians live a life shaped by rigorous discipline, lifelong uncertainty, emotional vulnerability and unwavering faith in their art. The emotional quietness of this theme is what stays with you long after the last page.
✍️ Strengths :
🔸The author's greatest achievement is her ability to see musicians as people first. Their struggles, their mundane routines, their private disappointments, nothing is glossed over. The narrative is textured, slow-burning, and empathetic.
🔸The book does not sanitize the darker truths of Indian classical music, be it caste, gender, or inherited privilege. It demands that readers confront these complexities.
🔸Her descriptions of small rooms, echoing halls, guru-shishya exchanges, or even the silence before the first note, everything feels lived, not researched.
🔸Even readers unfamiliar with classical music will find themselves drawn in. The human emotions take precedence over technicalities.
✒️ Areas for Improvement :
▪️The author's voice sometimes intrudes too much into certain chapters, and recedes too much in others. While the intention is to center the musician, the imbalance occasionally disrupts immersion.
▪️All eight musicians share the same nucleus, love for music. While that is the premise, some stories begin to echo each other emotionally, reducing the individuality of their journeys.
In conclusion, it is a rare gift, a book that listens before it narrates. It does not lecture about Hindustani music; it opens a door into its living rooms, its unlit corners, its rituals, its scars, its triumphs. Priya Purushothaman captures the humanity behind the art with a tenderness that feels earned, not manufactured. In a world obsessed with speed, algorithms, and instant gratification, this book reminds us of something essential, real art survives only because people surrender their entire lives to it.