Ṭhaharāv and Scooty Rides

While in Odisha, I primarily use my scooty for commute. There are a few places that I visit regularly, and a few places that I visit occasionally. In my regular routine, there's uni, which is around 22kms away from my house if I take the highway, and 28kms if I take the bypass road (which I personally love).

And I, somehow, find a reason (or try to) behind everything that I do and every opinion that I have. It has mostly got to do with romanticism- for I can't think of a single thing that I would do without finding some art or science behind it. Let's dive into the work (science) and the philosophy (art) behind it.

“The fact is you cannot be intelligent merely by choosing your opinions. The intelligent man is not the man who holds such-and-such views but the man who has sound reasons for what he believes and yet does not believe it dogmatically. And opinions held for sound reasons have less emotional unity than the opinions of dogmatists because reason is non-party, favouring now one side and now another. That is what people find so unpleasant about it.”

Bertrand Russell, Mortals and Others, Volume II: American Essays 1931-1935, On Orthodoxies (23 August 1933), p. 58

In this writeup, we shall be going over a lot of things, so BRACE YOURSELVES!

Part 1: The Idea (Science)

Let's see a graphical representation of how speed affects time. Let's take up the first instance where I have to cover 22 kms for analysis, because that is the path that I take the most as it is economically more viable, and the other one, artistically more pleasing. Now, let's go on a ride together, where, with the help of the following graphs and tables, I shall determine a good average speed for myself.

As one can notice in this graph, as we increase the speed, the time taken doesn't increase as we think it does. A table would be more helpful to illustrate my point.

As you can see from the table, if you think increasing the speed from 50km/h to 60km/h will save you a lot of time, I'm sorry to inform you, that's not the case. You're just saving 2 minutes and 12 seconds in the process. Even when you increase your speed from a pleasant 40km/h to 50km/h, you're just saving up 4 minutes 24 seconds. Now, I don't know what's more important for you- your life, or 4.4minutes.

There are many pros of going at 40km/h. Firstly, you get to enjoy a beautiful scooty ride, feel the wind, see the sights and take in all the smell that there are on your way. Secondly, the scooty is most fuel efficient within the speeds 30-50km/h; and 40km/h is exactly in the middle. You're saving the planet in a way by being more fuel efficient. Thirdly, you're saving yourself from accidents; that's because the vehicle is easier to control at this speed than at higher or lower speeds. I love my life and would hate for anything to happen to me, for I am doing a lot of work in a lot of fields and would love to complete ALL OF THEM! I know it's extremely ambitious but I would very much love to be alive to see my projects reach its target audience. Lastly, this is a speed that's not too fast for crowded roads and not too slow for highways, and hence you shall be causing the least inconveniences to your fellow commuters.

Note: I am not a robot who drives constantly at 40km/h. Rather, I go up to 45km/h on highways and come down to 35km/h in crowded streets, but the average speed clocks around 40km/h.

With a similar analysis as the one done above, we can arrive at a similar conclusion for the 28km path too- where the average speed needs to be around 45km/h, so I could go up to 50km/h on empty roads and 40km/h on the roads riddled with speed-breakers.

An important conclusion drawn from our findings is that the impact of increasing speed diminishes as the distance to be covered decreases: when traveling shorter distances, the marginal gains from higher speeds are minimal compared to longer routes. Conversely, for longer journeys, even small increases in speed can result in significant reductions in travel time. In short, impact of increasing speed is directly proportional to the distance.

Part 2: The Reason (Philosophy and Music)

Now diving into the musical and philosophical part of this entire thing. I couldn't help but give a hint about this part in the previous part.

Speed, as we know it, is a quantifiable quantity. But I want to put an argument that it is also has got a few non-quantifiable aspect to it, i.e., the factors that affect our perception of speed.

Factor 1:

Let's consider a physical example first, for it is easier to understand. The bigger the vehicle you are travelling in, the lesser you feel the speed. Example being, a bicycle at 40km/h versus a car at 40km/h: with a bicycle, it'll feel as if you are breaking the barriers of sound at 40km/h, but with car, 40km/h feels very normal.

The bigger the frame of reference, the lower the perception of speed.

Factor 2:

If a street is crowded or empty also plays a huge role. If a road is crowded with people walking around, bicycles, etc., even at a speed like 40km/h, you will feel as if you're zooming through. At the same time, on an empty highway, or even if its crowded with fast moving cars, at the same 40km/h, it'll feel as if your scooty is moving slower than a bicycle.

Wider and sparser the road, the lower the perception of speed.

The speed doesn't determine how "fast" you are going; the other factors around you determine what your pace is.

Now, lets take a dive into the philosophical part and see music through that.

In life, there are people who might act very surprised about certain qualities that you might possess- that surprise is not for your quality, rather it is a measurement of your quality against their frame of reference. Therefore one might notice that the same story might be appealing to others while subpar for some.

Now, let's get into the musical part.

I'm taking an example from a metaphor that Ustad Vilayat Khan sahab, one of the most revered sitariyas and one of my favourites, used to explain the concept of "Ṭhaharāv" (I will also try and embed the same video in this post): Imagine being aboard an airplane, soaring through the sky at incredible speeds (~900km/h). Despite hurtling through the air at such velocity, when you gaze out the window, the world outside appears to move in slow motion. The landscapes unfold slowly, as if time itself has slowed down.

This is called Ṭhaharāv- i.e., even when you're moving at ~900km/h, it should seem like everything is still and calm around you, as if you were out on a bicycle ride on the countryside.

While on a scooty, you can experience both Ṭhaharāv and the exact opposite of it too. I have always tried to actively inculcate Ṭhaharāv in my music (and ultimately my personality) for which it is also important to know the other side too!

As explained above, the perception of speed is what matters when you're on the scooty. When observed acutely, I noticed that whether you are going fast or slow depends on where you are driving and using what vehicle.

On crowded city streets, where the flow of traffic is constrained by congestion and obstacles, maintaining a speed of 35-40 km/h feels like a brisk pace. The narrow lanes, bustling intersections, and constant need for vigilance create a sense of urgency, making even this moderate speed seem fast.

Conversely, when I move onto the open stretches on the highways, the dynamics shift entirely. With wider lanes, smoother surfaces, and fewer speed-breakers, I find myself effortlessly cruising along at 45-50 km/h. However, paradoxically, this seemingly brisk pace can often be perceived as slow when compared to the breakneck speeds of other vehicles whizzing past me.

It's a curious juxtaposition: on the highways, where I'm traveling faster than I do on city streets, I may appear to be moving at a slower pace in relation to the surrounding traffic. Meanwhile, on the crowded streets, where I'm navigating through tight spaces, my relatively slower speed can give the impression of me driving recklessly.

Yet, it is on roads with moderate traffic where my driving is perceived as completely normal. Here, the fluctuations of the speed of vehicles around me create a sense of equilibrium, and my speed aligns harmoniously with the prevailing pace of the road.

In this, we see three perceptions of speed.

Firstly, when going at a higher-speed-than-normal on highways, it seems like I am driving slow.

Secondly, when going at a slower-speed-than-normal on streets, it seems like I'm driving fast.

Thirdly, at a normal speed on a road with moderate traffic, my driving is nothing out of the ordinary.

Well, let's put it in context of music to understand the aesthetics of tāns.

Just as the speed of a scooty can feel different depending on the road conditions, the execution of tāns in a musical composition is influenced by the structure and flow of the underlying bandish or composition.

Imagine the bandish/composition/gat as your road—the path that guides the journey. The composition sets the tone and direction, dictating the rhythm and mood of the performance.

The tāns serve as your vehicles, each possessing their own unique characteristics and capabilities.

For instance, sapāt tāns, characterised by their intricate and fast-paced movements, can be compared to driving at high speeds, and hence they require a bandish/gat which feels like a wide-open highway. These tāns require precision and agility, and when executed in a composition that favors such dynamic movements, they can seamlessly fuse into the musical highway.

On the other hand, meend-based tāns, with their slow and melodic flourishes, can be equated to navigating through bandishes that feel like crowded streets with a lot of twists and turns; hence the tāns will have to move at a leisurely pace. These tāns emphasise depth and expression, easily melt into crowded gats/bandishes.

The key to a good musical performance lies in aligning the choice of tāns with the structural elements of the bandish/gat. Just as driving too fast on a crowded street can disrupt the flow of traffic (possibly because you'd run over somebody), playing complex gamak and sapāt tāns in a composition that calls for slow and meend-based passages can disrupt the overall aesthetic balance.

In my time as a HCM sitariya and enthusiast, I've discovered that the choice of tāla shapes the structure of tāns in a performance. Each tāla, with its unique rhythmic pattern and tempo, influences the pacing and character of the tāns, adding depth and complexity to the musical narrative (obviously). Please note that the rules are not hard and fast or strict, they are mere observations and personal feelings.

Take, for example, the madhya-laya Ektāl—a 12-beat cycle. It is known for its characteristic groove and leisurely nature. In this tāla, tāns played are like a leisurely drive along a scenic winding mountainous route, characterised by smooth and controlled movements. Merukhands, subtle sapāts, and melodic-intensive tāns find their place here. For an example, we'll consider one of my favourite recordings of Rāga Desh by Ustad Mubarik Ali Khan sahab:

On the other hand, madhya-laya Teentāl—a 16-beat cycle marked by its lively tempo and steady rhythm—sets the stage for a different type of musical journey. Here, tāns are more spirited and embellished in character, with lightning-fast movements and intricate gamaks that dance across the rhythmic roadway. It's like navigating a scenic route on the plains, where not much effort is required maintain momentum and balance, and hence one could try out a lot of things that one is not able to on other challenging roads. Since, we already are in a very Des-i mood, let's consider another superb video of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan sahab:

Now, when exploring more complex tālas like the 10-beat cycle, 9-beat cycle, 5.5-beat cycle, or 13-beat cycle, etc, the musical terrain becomes even more nuanced. These tālas require compositions to tread carefully. Here, opting for simplicity over technicality is the way to go so as to ensure a harmonious flow of melody- where the gat/composition/bandish does not become too technical or non-musical. Just as navigating winding roads demands smooth turns to prevent slipping off the edge, compositions in complex tālas must take slow and deliberate twists to maintain musical coherence. Here's an example of Ustad Shahid Parvez Khan sahab playing a gat in Rāga Shuddha Sārang:

Things to notice:

i. technicality of the rhythmic cycle (5.5 beat cycle)

ii. simplicity of the tabla being played, so that a sort of groove is formed.

iii. simplicity of the gat/composition being played on the sitar, assisting and enhancing the groove.

iv. simplicity of tāns

Guruji once said while teaching a composition that sapat and merukhand taans won't suit the bandish that we were learning at the time. I didn't really get what he was trying to say, for I had no points of reference for that, and one day while on scooty, it dawned upon me.

Conclusion:

There are a few realisations that I came across while on my scooty, on the highways: the ones who travel exceptionally fast on highways are the ones doing it for fun, for they aren't the ones regular with it (yes, slow and steady is safer but boring). The regular commuters are generally the ones who don't speed up, for they know what speed works best for them and their purpose. Speeding up on the read shows not only your carelessness, but also your unfamiliarity with the roads. Hence, always travel at a pace at which your brain can think easily, without effort.

Just as the airplane's apparent stillness belies its swift movement through the sky, so too does Ṭhaharāv remind us to cherish the moments of pause amidst life's hustle and bustle. It is in these moments of stillness that we find clarity, perspective, and the opportunity to truly live.

An Interesting Epilogue (edited on 3rd October, 2024):

Slowly, I am coming to realize that Bhubaneswar roads are tailored for a speed of 40-45 km/h. Now, you may ask, how did I come to this conclusion? It was a mixture of coincidence and awareness. Naturally, I tend to drive at an average of 40 km/h. But the realization came one day when I was giving Saranya a ride on my scooty. We were heading somewhere, and as we approached every traffic signal, it seemed to turn green just as we arrived. I joked that it was happening because I was with her, as if the universe always aligns in my favour.

I laughed at my own joke, and continued driving, but then it piqued my curiosity. I started to observe more closely every time I went for a ride after that day. I paid attention to the timing of the signals and my speed. And that’s when I noticed it—if you catch one green light and maintain a speed of around 45 km/h, the rest of the lights on your route seem to synchronise perfectly with you. One after another, you'll glide through the city without stopping.

This phenomenon, though subtle, felt like serendipity. A city that somehow fits into your personal rhythm, allowing you to flow with it as if you were in sync with its pulse. There’s something oddly comforting about it—a moment where urban chaos seems to step aside and everything clicks into place, not because of some grand design, but because you happened to find the rhythm.

If this isn’t serendipity, then I’m not sure what is.