‘Kumar Gandharva was not just a musical genius but also a profound scholar & thinker’: Amit Dutta & Kuldeep Barve

Dutta has co-written Phool ka Chhand with musician-composer-teacher Kuldeep Barve, 47, who’s the narrator in the film, besides consulting on the music. Barve, founder of the Pune Guitar Society and teacher at FLAME University Pune, first collaborated on music on Dutta’s enchanting, form-redefining and career-recalibrating film Nainsukh (2010), on the 18th-century miniature painter from Guler, though their friendship goes back 25 years when Dutta was a student at Pune’s Film and Television Institute of India (FTII). The pedagogue in Western classical, jazz, et al, Barve’s been a student of Indian classical music for two decades, and has been Dutta’s point of entry into the world of Pandit Kumar Gandharva.

Phool ka Chhand is a window to the mind and music of this singular enigmatic artiste. It doesn’t aim to tell a biopic story of the making of a master but focuses on a crucial juncture of his life as much as it is Kumar Gandharva’s rumination on and interpretation of bandish (composition). Bandish is something which is bound, yet, contrary to its meaning, it always tries to set itself free.

The 81-minute film’s narrative zooms in on the artist in his home, in Madhya Pradesh’s Malwa, immersed in reflection on the self and his music, and flashes back into his past in Karnataka’s Sulebhavi. A child runs after a bird. Travelling Hari Katha singers come to his village and inspire him. The filmmaker tells this story though metaphors. If a stylus-like bird sits on the gramophone’s tonearm, the and the horn grows big to swallow the child who’s keenly listening to it, the image of an ouroboros, a snake coiling around a lung, trying to eat its own tail, suggests the bout of tuberculosis that threw Kumar Gandharva out of singing for six years at the peak of his career, at age 23, but also signals a rebirth and a cosmic harmony. His wife Bhanumati, with a tanpura in hand, nursing him to health and music, as his soft hums pour out into the world through a window in his room. Myriad sounds blend to give this film a unique aural mellifluence: a clock ticking away, a koel making the uwu sound, pages of a book being flipped, leaves of grass brushing against strong winds, folk melodies suspended in air and Kumar Gandharva grounding it all with the raga Shree-based chhota Khayal song, Karan de re kachhu lala re.

In the first instalment of a two-part exclusive email interview, Amit Dutta and Kuldeep Barve talk about the making of their latest film, on animation, and more. Edited excerpts:

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Kuldeep, what has been your experience working with Amit, on Nainsukh and Phool ka Chhand?

Kuldeep Barve: On Amit’s brilliant film Nainsukh (2010), I worked with Iranian musician Sasan Bazgir, a sehtar, tar and kamancheh player. Amit wanted the sound timbre and expressiveness that these Iranian instruments offer and I composed a piece based on the raga Todi for Nainsukh. My involvement in Rhythm of a Flower is of a different depth and magnitude. It’s been an intense and intimate experience since Kumarji’s work has been pivotal in my life. There is very deep musicality in the way Amit engages with his work, searching for that space between structure, improvisation/exploration and the emergent.

What’s your respective first memory of a Kumar Gandharva song?

Barve: It’s hard to pin down the very first memory of Kumarji’s music in my life, but it’s been a central part of my musical preoccupations for more than 25 years now. His singing, compositions, improvisations, his writing and interviews/lec-dems, etc., have been extremely pivotal in my musical development. He is truly someone who can be called a ‘vaggeyakara’, a very rare occurrence, someone who has touched all aspects of music profoundly from performing, teaching, composing, researching, theorising, etc. In his work, you sense deep serious ruminations, playfulness and innocence, exploratory excursions, indefatigable interest in folk (desi) and classical (margi) traditions, serious interest in literature and its connection to music, an urge to question established norms and so-called traditions, a constant connect with nature and ‘the organic’ and ‘the swabhavik’, to name a few.

Amit Dutta: My first memory of listening to Kumar Gandharva is intertwined with my friendship with Kuldeep. It was the early 2000s. Kuldeep, with his proximity to FTII, would visit often, and our camaraderie grew quickly. He is a remarkably diligent student of music, with an extraordinary grasp of Indian classical traditions. It was through him that I was introduced to Kumar Gandharva’s music. Kuldeep would bring cassettes, and we would sit together, immersing ourselves in his music. In a way, Kumarji’s music entered my life through shared moments of listening and learning. The first encounter with Kumar Gandharva’s voice was something entirely different. It was not just powerful; it was mysterious, almost transcendental. His compositions carried a quality that felt untethered — expansive yet intimate, ancient yet timeless.

Pandit Kumar Gandharva in a still from 'Phool ka Chhand' ('Rhythm of a Song').

What kind of research went into making this film on Kumar Gandharva?

Dutta: The research process for the film was deeply enriching. First, I read everything available on him, particularly the book Kaljayee Kumar Gandharva (2014), edited by Kalapini Komkali (Kumar Gandharva’s daughter) and Rekha Inamdar-Sane, as well as Kumarji’s own book Anuprag Vilas (1965). I was fortunate to have the privilege of consulting his family, which proved to be an immensely rewarding experience. Bhuvneshji (Kumar Gandharva’s grandson) and Kalapiniji were incredibly generous with their time, providing rare recordings, texts, and photographs that were invaluable to the project. One particular moment stands out: I had a question about Kumarji’s childhood attire, and their guidance helped clarify many such details. The references they provided were meticulously organized and shared with Allen Shaw, our animator, who then created the initial sketches. We worked in close collaboration, discussing the progress and making refinements for almost two years — an arduous but incredibly fulfilling process.

Tell us about the process of selecting music from Pandit Kumar Gandharva’s oeuvre for the film?

Barve: The process of selecting Kumarji’s bandishes was closely tied with the script and screenplay in the pre-production and also to the edit process. It was not done to sample the vast range of Kumarji’s creation but rather whatever lent itself musically and thematically to the script/edit. Sometimes, the laya of a bandish revealed itself beautifully when the moving image accompanied it. Sometimes, it was the words of the bandish that were relevant to an aesthetic idea and sometimes it was Kumarji’s style of delivery and voice quality that attracted us. Places where a Kumarji bandish has been used, it’s used in a way to add another dimension or layer to the screenplay/animation. The genesis of the bandish, the meaning of the words and its documented history have been used to open up different possibilities of interpretation and meaning, thus breathing a new cinematic life into the bandish.

Kuldeep, was this a first for you, to co-write a film? Amit, why did you choose Kuldeep to write it with?

Barve: As a writer, this is my first project. It was an intense process that involved research and reading all that has been written by Kumarji and about him, listening to his music in its length, breadth and depth and gleaning his musical insights and aesthetic philosophy. It became clear that we wanted to concentrate more on his music and musical philosophy through his bandishes. It was as much about what his music was doing to us as much as it was about the music which is where I feel this film diverges from other works made on him and/or his music. We felt a sense of freedom because we did not feel it necessary to ‘explain’ or elucidate his music to the audience, but to share and become one with an experience. Kumarji talks about this very aspect of being able to ‘tell’ when he was researching, studying and presenting Bal Gandharva’s music [prominent Marathi classical vocalist and stage actor, 1888-1967]. He was exploring this idea of telling (kathan/kahen); whether he could resonate and express the ‘kahen’ in Bal Gandharva’s music.

Dutta: Kumar Gandharva was not just a musical genius but also a profound scholar and thinker. To do justice to this complexity, I sought the help of Kuldeep. He brought not only his deep knowledge of Kumar Gandharva’s work and theoretical depth but also his expertise in sourcing and translating Marathi texts, as much of Kumarji’s thought and writing is in Marathi.

A still from 'Phool ka Chhand' ('Rhythm of a Song').

Why choose animation as a form for this film and not a live-action fiction feature or feature documentary?

Dutta: Animation offers a unique freedom that’s hard to find in other mediums. It transcends the constraints of physical reality and budget, yet demands a discipline of its own. Animation doesn’t just allow ideas to unfold — it enables them to become. It gave me the opportunity to embody the essence of Kumar Gandharva’s music and life in ways that a live-action feature or documentary simply couldn’t. It resonates with the poetic complexity of classical Indian aesthetics, where emotions and ideas are encoded rather than just represented. Just as miniature painters inscribed deeper meanings into their works, animation allowed me to ‘write’ my film — layering meaning and emotion in a way that feels closer to the core of our tradition. It provided the space to convey the fluid, ceaseless process of becoming, much like how a raga unfolds gradually yet profoundly over time.

Nainsukh signed his name as ‘likhitam Nainsukh’, which means ‘this picture is written by Nainsukh’, not painted or drawn. I wondered why the word ‘likh’ was used, and later, I found a fascinating explanation in one of Vasudev Sharan Agrawala’s essays on the significance of the ‘likh’ dhatu. As Vasudevji lamented, this profound tradition of ‘writing’ imagery has been largely overlooked in modern India.

Also, I’ve long been intrigued by the idea of making a cameraless film. For reasons I can’t fully explain. I’ve always preferred stillness over movement; I don’t enjoy travelling much and find peace in being stationary for long stretches of time. Animation, perhaps, aligns with my temperament — it brings a deep sense of tranquility and calm that I struggle to find elsewhere.

A still from the film.

Your short animation Wittgenstein Plays Chess with Marcel Duchamp, or How Not to Do Philosophy, 2020 is formally very different from the current one. Why choose hand-drawn watercolour animation this time?

Dutta: Handmade animation possesses an undeniable magic — a warmth and intimacy. Each frame, painstakingly crafted by hand, carries a sense of presence, a tactile connection between the creator and the creation. This ‘presence’ is something deeply valued in Zen, where the act of creation is not merely a process but an extension of the self. There is a story of a Zen practitioner who spent his entire life painting circles, or ensō. For him, each stroke was sacred, imbued with his being in that precise moment. He explained that the value of his work lay not in perfection but in presence — the unrepeatable essence of the here and now. Handmade animation echoes this thought. This approach transforms animation into more than just a medium of communication; it becomes an act of meditation. In an age dominated by digital precision, handmade animation reminds us of the beauty found in imperfection and the profound humanity in every intentional gesture. It is art that lives and breathes — a quiet rebellion against the transient and the disposable. Creating one second of movement in handmade animation requires 12–24 individually painted frames. The repetitive nature of the work transforms it into a disciplined and meaningful practice.

A still from 'Phool ka Chhand' ('Rhythm of a Song').

There are visual moments in the film that are akin to a Studio Ghibli-like animation. Tell us about bringing illustrator Allen Shaw on board.

Dutta: To capture the interiority of Kumarji’s mind, I used animation and collaborated with Allen Shaw, a children’s book illustrator, because I wanted to engage with the complexity of Kumarji’s life and ideas while maintaining the simplicity and innocence of his being — to give form to that delicate moment between the simple and the sublime. I had seen Allen’s work in a children’s magazine (Cycle), where I regularly publish children’s stories. Allen told me he hadn’t worked on animation despite studying it at NID, (National Institute of Drama, Ahmedabad), a place where I taught briefly. I told him I wasn’t even seeking traditional animation. Even a still frame, as long as it conveyed the essence of what I envisioned, was enough. This isn’t an animation film in the conventional sense; you could call it ‘dynamised stillness’, where motion serves the stillness rather than the other way around.

Phool ka Chhand has elements of chronological/linear narrative storytelling, unlike your previous films. Also typical of your films, there’s a circularity/repetition of images and phrases. Tell us about the writing process.

Dutta: My writing process is largely intuitive — I allow inspiration to guide me. From the start, I was certain that I wanted to explore spaces and ideas that conventional films might not venture into. Cinema has the unique ability to attempt what seems impossible or too expensive to realise, and I used animation as a symbolic tool to convey those pristine ideas. For me, animation isn’t about technical sophistication; it’s a means to access a deeper, almost ineffable realm. While creating the script, I began by collecting material and following a loose chronological structure to trace the rhythm of Kumar Gandharva’s life. The circularity you mentioned — day and night, the changing seasons, life and death, youth to old age — was something I consciously retained. It reflects the inherent rhythms of life. At the same time, I embraced disruptions in this flow, a kind of dream logic or unintentional abstraction that mirrors the unpredictable nature of existence.

A still from the film.

You’re spotlighting a performing artiste after making films on figures from the fields of fine arts and art history. Do you see this film marking a fresh departure in your oeuvre?

Dutta: Yes, in a sense, this is the first time I am focusing specifically on a performing artist, but it’s not entirely uncharted territory for me. Back in 2001, while at FTII, I made a student film on the life of (Hindustani classical vocalist) Pandit Shivram Buwa Vaze, inspired by the writings of Mohan Nadkarni. Later, I also delved into researching the life of Pandit Bhaskar Buwa Bakhale and even contemplated making a feature film on Pandit Pran Nath. Throughout my journey, I’ve been drawn to figures in the music world who have profoundly influenced me. For my film on painter Paramjit Singh, I collaborated with Rudra Veena Maestro Ustad Bahauddin Dagar, adding another layer to my explorations of the connections between visual art and music.

In that sense, yes, this film does mark a fresh departure, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel entirely new. It belongs to the broader universe of my work — the intersection of mind and world, of thought and experience. Whether I’m exploring a figure from fine arts or a performing artist, the essence remains the same. I’m always seeking to explore the profound, the transformative, and the way art shapes and defines our understanding of the world. While the form may shift, the underlying motivation — the desire to probe the depths of human experience through the lens of art — remains constant. The film about Kumar Gandharva is, therefore, a continuation of this ongoing exploration, even as it expands into new territory.

A still from the film.

What next?

Dutta: Together (with Barve), we are exploring the intricacies of Raga Bhoop, captivated by its profound simplicity and depth. I wanted to make a film that explores a single raga, its ability to evoke the subtlest nuances of emotion and thought, where the film develops over time rather than presenting a bouquet of ragas. For this, I chose Raga Bhoop, performed by (Dhrupad singer) Ustad Zia Fariduddin Dagar, also known as Chhote Ustad, accompanied by an insightful commentary recorded by him on its intricate structure. The journey into Bhoop becomes a meditation on the infinite expressions within a finite framework.

On my own, I’m also working on a film about the art of Phulkari, collaborating with my 87-year-old aunt, who holds a wealth of knowledge about this almost lost art form.