The House of Letters: Musical Apprenticeship among the Newar Farmers (Kathmandu Valley, Nepal)

“Etoit-il étonnant que les premiers grammairiens soumissent leur art à la musique, & fussent à la fois professeurs de l’un & de l’autre?”

J. J. Rousseau, Essai sur l’origine des langues

“Is it surprising that the first grammarians subordinated their art to music and were teachers of both?”

J. J. Rousseau, Essay on the Origin of Language

This article explores the principles of musical discourse among the Jyāpu farmers of the Kathmandu Valley as revealed through the teaching of the dhimay drum. During this purely ritual apprenticeship, it is through the transmission of a corpus of musical compositions, based on mimetic syllables that are perceived as an expression of the voice of Nāsadyaḥ, the local god of music and dance, that the discourse of authority of the masters is expressed. The instrumental pieces played during religious processions originate from these syllables, which imitate the sounds of the drum. In addition, dhimay drum apprenticeship is inextricably linked to that of acrobatics, which includes the virtuoso handling of a tall bamboo pole. I propose to discuss here the nature of this musical language in its traditional context, as well as its recent transformations in Newar society.¹

In 1995 when I embarked on my investigations in Kathmandu Valley, I was looking for a master musician who would be willing to teach me the rudiments. At that time Jyāpu farmers were not disposed to share their musical knowledge with anyone, even less so with a stranger. However, I was put in touch with Dev Narayan Maharjan, a master-drummer from Oṁ Bāhā twāḥ, a neighborhood in the south of the city. After we had been introduced, Dev Narayan looked me over in silence. Suddenly, he said curtly: Ji guru kā (“I am a master”). I nodded to show him that I did not doubt it for an instant. “No,” he said, “you don’t understand; I am a Master.” And as if to affirm his statement he got up abruptly and took down a little cloth bag that hung from the ceiling. Opening it carefully, he held it under my nose, repeating: “You see, I am a Master!” The blood stained bag contained a freshly cut buffalo’s ear. After a few moments of heavy silence, he disappeared into his attic and came back with a battered violin. Holding it towards me he said: “It’s your turn now. Show me what you can do! Repair this violin and play something!” When I had gotten over my surprise, I went ahead as well as I could, repositioning the strings, which had been put on the wrong pegs. After I had straightened the bridge and tuned the instrument I put it between my legs, as cellists do, and—thinking it would please him—started playing a Newar melody that I had heard a few days before. He did not seem the least bit interested in my rather inaccurate rendition, but kept his eyes riveted on my right hand. Interrupting me to comment on my playing, he said, “Yes, the way you use your wrist proves that you are also an ‘expert’ in your music. Let us go to the temple of Nāsadyaḥ. He and only he will decide if I can teach you!” We went off to the temple of the god of music, and there, taking an egg out of his pocket, he smashed it against the altar and examined the contents closely. After many long minutes he turned around and said, “Nāsadyaḥ has accepted. Come early tomorrow morning, because I have to go to the fields.” As this episode shows, the musical apprenticeship among the Jyāpu can only be undertaken inside the framework of a relationship with a master and under the patronage of the deity who presides over dancing and music.²

This article is organized into three parts. The first part presents the god of music and the dhimay drum that embodies him; the second part is devoted to the highly ritualized teaching of the instrument by a college of masters; and the third and last...