A History of the Rooftop Baithak

In a recent development, I’ve started a baithak series that’s meant to take place on our house roof. As I write this, it’s the morning of the first event, and the rain hasn’t stopped yet. The event is set to begin in just eight hours, and if the rain doesn’t let up, I’ll have to scale it down from the standards I’d originally imagined. Surprisingly, as I sit with that thought, I realise it might actually be a good thing. Here's a poster for the same:

I don’t feel particularly great about the possibility of toning things down, which is why I’m writing about it. Writing has always been my way of coping, my way of making sense of things that feel beyond my control. It’s helping me prepare for the reality that not everything goes according to plan, and that’s okay. This is the first time I’ll be hosting an event, and the idea that my first attempt might be something less than I’d hoped for is a little tough to swallow. But as I write, I’m making peace with it. There’s something valuable in learning to accept things as they come, especially when the outcome is uncertain. Perhaps it’s not about the event living up to a preconceived vision, but about the experience of putting myself out there and creating something meaningful, rain or shine.

It is the first time I shall be hosting an event, and to even fathom that the first time will be a sort of failure is something I am readying to accept by writing this down.

Let me pen down the history of our rooftop.

Phase 1 of development:

It all began in early 2021, during the height of the COVID-19 lockdown. It was a tough time for everyone, with the world seemingly at a standstill. Yet, amid the uncertainty, my parents, vocal teacher, and I found solace in a very unsurprising and obvious place: music.

We formed a small, spirited group of like-minded individuals who, despite the strict lockdown norms, came together (in secret) for music. Before anyone jumps to conclusions, let me clarify that throughout the entire period, not a single person from our group of 10-12 ever contracted COVID. We took precautions, but we also needed something to keep our spirits alive during such a bleak time.

It all started with the simple idea of making music using whatever little resources we had at hand. We didn’t have high-end equipment or a professional setup—just a set of old, dilapidated speakers (which I still have today), a basic 6-channel Ahuja mix console, and four mics, the brands of which I couldn’t even tell you because they were a generous gift from Kalia Bhai, a mix engineer from Bhubaneswar who has since become a close family friend. Our "stage" was nothing more than two long cushions pushed together, covered with a white bedsheet. And our audience? They sat on a carpet that covered half of the roof.

It was a humble setup— not something you'd normally enjoy, but for us, it felt like magic.

Initially, it was just a way for us to take our minds off the chaos outside, a form of therapy that allowed us to forget about the pandemic, even if just for a few hours. We began doing Facebook live events to create a semblance of performing for an audience. And surprisingly, people tuned in—people who were also stuck at home, looking for something, anything, to break the monotony. The views came in, and news of our little rooftop baithaks spread like wildfire. A picture of the same:

Me playing my old sitar on our roof for a Facebook Live event during the COVID-19 lockdown.

Suddenly, people from different parts of Odisha wanted to be part of it. Then, slowly, word spread across India, and even to other countries. The best part? People didn’t need to physically come to our rooftop to join in. They could just log in, send videos, or join us via online platforms, and we’d weave their performances into our live events. What started as a neighbourhood jam had turned into something that transcended boundaries, both geographical and emotional.

The more regular it became, the more our neighbours became involved, each contributing in whatever way they could. Some brought food, others joined in on the singing, while some just came to sit on the roof and offer their support. It was beautiful in its simplicity and community-driven spirit. A picture of the same:

Musicians on our "stage". [L-R] Guru Dibakar Parida (marddala), Bijalakaxmi Routray (manjira), Anuja Tarini Mishra (vocal), Guru Nimakanta Routray (harmonium), me (sitar)

One fine day, we noticed something strange. We saw a PCR van parked outside our house. Our first instinct was obvious, we thought the police was going to come down cracking at us for breaking lockdown norms. But as I kept glancing out from our rooftop, I realized something odd. No one got out of the van. No policemen stormed up to our roof to shut us down. Instead, they stood by their vehicle, seemingly listening to the music that floated out into the still night air. For the first time in my life, I truly understood the tangible, almost magical power of music. It wasn’t just an art form—it was something that touched people, even strangers passing by. To me, this was an epiphanic moment. I knew (and more importantly, had proof) for the first time in my life that music is not just aesthetics, it actually affects real people and their day-to-day lives. Music wasn’t just a personal escape—it was a gift, a universal language. What we were doing mattered.

"Stage" set up on roof for the first time which would go on to become even bigger in the future

A New Beginning: As time went by, what started as a modest rooftop jam session gradually evolved into something much bigger. We continued hosting musical nights, inviting performers from all over Odisha, and in doing so, we nurtured a rich culture of artistic collaboration. Musicians, both seasoned and emerging, of all age groups, began to gravitate toward our gatherings, whether virtually or in person. It was during this time that the seeds for Odisha Sanket were sown, a concept birthed by my father with the vision of promoting and propagating Odissi music through virtual platforms. Through Odisha Sanket, we were able to showcase the beauty of our state’s classical music to a wider audience. And to think that all of this, this entire movement, stemmed from those rooftop musical evenings we hosted during the peak of lockdown—it still feels surreal to me. What started as an impromptu response to a difficult time became something far more meaningful, something that connected people across distances and brought art into the homes of many.

Phase 2 of development:

As the lockdown lifted and life began to return to normal, I personally believed that our rooftop musical sessions would come to a natural end. After all, why would anyone want to continue attending small, intimate events when auditoriums and concert halls—spaces designed for live performances were reopening? Our rooftop could only fit 30 to 40 people at most, and I figured that in-person events at proper venues would once again become the preferred choice.

Miraculously somehow, we stuck with the idea — somehow, the rooftop gatherings persisted. We continued hosting events there, recording performances, bringing people together, and keeping the momentum alive. But as time went on, I started to lose interest. What had once been a meaningful thing during the lockdown now felt like something of a relic — random events being held at random times of the year, without any real purpose driving them forward. The spontaneity and excitement that had fuelled those early lockdown days were fading, and now that the world was moving again, even our regular musicians found it difficult to make time for these get-togethers. Everyone was busy, and coordinating schedules became a challenge. It felt like we were holding on to something that had already served its purpose. The rooftop sessions no longer carried the same weight or significance they once did. They had become sporadic and, in some ways, a shadow of what they used to be.

A particularly impromptu performance. [L-R] Soumyakant "Gyana" Mallick (marddala), me (vocals), Dr. Chinmaya Rath (manjira), Guru Nimakanta Routray (harmonium)

I am someone who doesn’t enjoy dealing with too many variables. I like to keep things straightforward and predictable, and that preference spills into almost everything I do. Even when I take on projects that involve collaborations—where multiple inputs and opinions are inevitable—I try to keep the variables to a minimum. I prefer clear roles and streamlined processes, where everyone knows their place and the outcome can be somewhat controlled.

That’s why, to be honest, I never really threw myself fully into these rooftop music gatherings. They were, by nature, unpredictable and dependent on the participation of many different people. There were too many moving parts: from coordinating schedules to relying on performers to show up, to dealing with technical challenges, and even keeping the weather in mind. All of that felt like too much chaos to manage. It wasn’t something I could control, and it was far from the kind of environment I thrive in.

Beginning of Ideation: Sometime around late 2023, I had the idea to host a baithak, which, by its very nature, has a lot of moving parts. The idea was born out of an observation I had made over time—performers, especially local artistes, were often unable to truly express themselves as they wanted to. Time constraints were one of the biggest culprits. No organizer, in their right mind, would allocate a one-hour slot to a local artiste, especially when the big-name performers could draw in larger crowds. This created a vicious cycle. Since local artistes weren't given opportunities to perform for longer recitals, they didn’t practice for them either. With time, this lack of practice became ingrained in the system, so much so that new artistes didn’t even consider preparing themselves for long solo performances. And as a generation went by, a vacuum was created, where we no longer had local performers who could confidently deliver a solid hour-long recital. As a result, event organizers started bringing in artistes from outside, not just because they were good, but because they felt there wasn’t anyone locally capable of delivering a good performance.

Now, I’m not saying that bringing in performers from outside is bad—it’s great to have variety and exposure—but it shouldn’t be because we’re lacking talent at home. We should be nurturing and building up our own artistes to the point where outside performers leave our stages thinking, “Wow, they have incredible talent here.” They should go back and tell people about a local artiste they saw, spreading that name beyond our borders.

"Baithak" artwork on a broken plank of wood by Jitendra uncle

And that’s where the idea for the baithak came in. I envisioned an intimate gathering of 25-30 music-loving people who would come together, not just to perform, but to enrich each other through their music. A space where time wasn't an issue, where an artiste could perform for as long as they wanted, to truly express themselves without feeling rushed. It would be a space for learning, growing, and forming a community—one that would strengthen the local talent pool while giving artistes the confidence and experience to take their performances to the next level.

Phase 3 of development:

You’d find this to be a common trait among creative people—we often chase a certain level of perfection, constantly tweaking and reworking things until they meet our standards of satisfaction. I’m no different.

I can't just host a baithak. Everything has to be meticulously planned. The lights need to create the right mood, the sound system has to be crisp but soulful, and the décor has to evoke a sense of warmth and intimacy, adhering to a colour palette that complements the experience. Every detail matters.

This phase of planning and execution began around mid-2023 and still continues. One of the significant upgrades was the sound system—I've moved on from those four old, worn-out speakers to a more elaborate setup, which now includes not just the new ones but also those very same old speakers. Why? Because they’re part of the journey.

And if you’ve been following along, you’d know this about me: I’m a hopeless romantic at heart. No matter how advanced my audio setup becomes, I can’t bring myself to retire those original speakers. They were there from the very beginning—when all this was just an idea we barely knew would stick. Those speakers, once gathering dust in the corner of our house, found their purpose in the most unexpected way. They’re a reminder of where it all started, and for me, that connection is irreplaceable.

There’s a certain poetry in keeping them, in acknowledging that they’ve been part of this ride, just like the people, the music, and the memories that have shaped this entire journey.

The lighting setup has gone through a significant transformation over time. What started with just one main white light has now evolved into a carefully planned arrangement of three larger lights (don’t ask me the technical names!), a few lamps that give off a cozy ambiance, and some strategically placed lights on the plants and pots around the space. It's all about creating the right mood and atmosphere now.

Mumma maintaining the plants on the net system

The vision for the decoration was to keep things as natural-looking as possible. Initially, we had this grand plan to use climbers and creepers to cover the sides of the roof. I had already set up nets, hoping they’d grow beautifully and add that natural screen of green. For maintenance, mumma would go and water the plants everyday, while I'd go from time to time and redirect the growth of the creepers so that they cover a huge area.

But with time, both mumma and I realised that this wasn't feasible. The roof just didn't have enough soil or nutrients for the plants to grow that big and lush. So, we pivoted.

Bamboo curtains ready to get installed: notice the plants that couldn't survive on the nets and died.

That’s when the idea of bamboo curtains came into play, which we promptly commissioned. The whole process of getting those curtains made was a journey in itself. It took about 8-9 months for the entire structure to be completed. First, the bamboo had to be cut to the right lengths. Then, the pieces were submerged in a pond for seasoning (for a good 3-4 months). After that, they were sheered down to get the right texture. Finally, everything was stitched together to form the curtain structure you see on the roof today. This wasn't just any quick project—it was crafted in my village, Jagatsinghpur, and then brought all the way here.

With respect to the few lamps that were mentioned previously, I was helped out by another Soumya, who we called "Gyana", a very dear and helpful kid. I had an idea to place lamps made of bamboo and cane for enhancing the aesthetics. Gyana had the perfect place in mind to get these lamps at the right price; and so we went. It was a summer evening in Bhubaneswar, one of the pleasant ones. On reaching the market, we looked at a few shops, chose our lamps, and came back.

Then we started developing the main lights, with which Ashok bhai had a huge hand. He got us the two big yellow lights for cheap. Then he was the one who did all the installations, connections, and wiring of the lamps and lights. Then came in Punyabrata bhai, our dearest DOP, who helped out with the lighting and light placement. A picture of the same:

Punyabrata Bhai on the stage after light setup

It’s all been a group effort, with each piece coming together to make the space feel just right—perfect for the baithaks, and any other event we might want to host.

Here's a list of people who helped me make the place the way it is:

1. Papa and mumma, for every time I need any sort of help in any tiny thing.

2. Kalia bhai, the one who provided us with an amplifier, the initial connections to the speakers, two huge extension cables, and our first good mics.

3. Ashok bhai, our trustworthy electrician who somehow always finds reasons to delay his work.

4. Saroj bhai, the audio "engineer" who comes from time to time, makes the cables and connections, and sings a few songs to test out his cables and speakers.

5. Bijaya uncle, who builds anything that involves wood, has a cup of tea, and takes 2 days more than the time he promises to deliver.

6. Jitendra uncle, our very own artist, who helped make a rustic looking wooden board for the baithak.

7. Punyabrata bhai, who came in in the end, helped me out with the lighting and aesthetics of the entire place.

8. Ananta bhai and Siddhi, for helping me put the fake plants in place.

   
   

   And obviously, my parents. I have purposefully kept them out of this list for without them, nothing would have been possible.