Harmonies Redefined – The Trailblazers series: The Magic of Rhythms – Bickram Ghosh
Part V of the series on artistes, who have been trendsetters in the world of Indian classical arts, in the words of authors Shantanu Das and Sapna Narayan.
In the smoky, dim-lit bar of Brussels, in 1993, Bickram Ghosh sat transfixed. Fresh off his first ever concert with the legendary Pandit Ravi Shankar, still in his kurta-pyjama, he watched as an African-American musician abandoned his congas mid-performance and began to play his own body — cheeks, chest, arms — crafting intricate rhythms that seemed to leap from his very skin. In that instant, Bickram saw music untethered from tradition, alive in a raw, elemental form. A spontaneous exchange followed: his embroidered kurta for an Afro-print T-shirt, and a crash course in body percussion that would later ripple through his music in ways he couldn’t yet imagine.
Long before that night in Brussels, rhythm had been the air Bickram breathed. Born into a Kolkata home steeped in the arts, he was the son of two formidable musicians. His father, Pandit Shankar Ghosh, was a tabla maestro revered across the world; his mother, Sanjukta Ghosh, a classical vocalist, whose soaring melodies filled their home with music as natural as sunlight. Between his father’s strict precision and his mother’s emotive expressions, Bickram’s childhood was a constant negotiation between discipline and freedom, structure and emotion.
From the age of five, his days began with the resonant syllables of the tabla —dha, dhin, na — repeated tirelessly under his father’s exacting gaze. Rigorous practice was non-negotiable; perfection, expected. Yet even in these early days, a part of him yearned for something beyond the set patterns, beyond the walls of gharana and tradition.
That yearning deepened during his early years in America. In San Rafael, California, where his parents taught at the Ali Akbar College of Music, Bickram was immersed in an eclectic soundscape. Legends like Ustad Ali Akbar khan, Ustad Zakir Hussain, and Pandit Ravi Shankar floated in and out of his young world. The boundary between Indian classical and Western music was porous, and interactions and collaborations of Pandit Shankar Ghosh with artists like Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead and saxophonist John Handy left a subconscious impression. Yet his father’s fears for his cultural roots led to a decisive return to India when Bickram was just five and a half years old.
Landing in 1970s Kolkata, however, was a shock to the system. Accustomed to American sunshine and Sesame Street, Bickram found himself amid political unrest, regular power cuts, and the sharp tongue of playground bullies who mocked his accented Bengali. Shy and isolated, he watched children from his balcony, longing to join their games yet too nervous to ask. It took months before he finally mustered the courage to say, “Amake khelte nebey? (Will you take me to play with you?)” — a moment of fragile triumph he would later immortalise in his composition, “Language of Innocence.”
While socially adapting was a slow process, musically, he was navigating two parallel worlds. At La Martiniere for Boys, a British-influenced school, he absorbed Western pop and rock, forming a band called The Satellites and playing congas to covers of the Beatles and Rolling Stones. At home, however, the strict classical training never relented. His father woke him before dawn for tabla practice, carefully guarding his hands from any sport that might cause injury. “Looking back,” Bickram reflects, “I realize he gave me the greatest gift—an opportunity to live a life immersed in music.”
The contrasts of his upbringing — Western at school, classical at home — would eventually shape a unique artistic identity. His father’s philosophy was clear: learn everything but never become a copy. “If you play like me,” his father warned, “they’ll want me, not you.” Encouraged to develop his “own voice”, Bickram sought training from mridangam maestro Pandit S. Sekhar - an association that gave him in-depth understanding of Carnatic percussion which helped him create a unique “ Baaj “that has influenced a whole new generation.
Despite excelling as an accompanist, playing with masters across the world, by the late 1990s, Bickram felt a deep void. Personally, his first marriage crumbled; professionally, the acclaim felt hollow. Restless and disillusioned, he withdrew temporarily from public performance of Indian classical music, borrowing money from banks to sustain himself while he searched for meaning. During this hiatus, he read voraciously, walked in nature, and turned inward—seeking not just a new sound, but a new sense of self.
It was during this crucible of transformation that Rhythmscape was born. Not fusion, as it was often labelled, but a new language altogether: one where Indian classical rhythms met jazz, electronica, and global beats on equal footing.
Taking a bold leap, Bickram sent a single-track demo to Sony Music with no prior connection. In spite of the genre being undefined and absolutely fresh, they loved it! Thus began a new chapter - one where the tabla sat centre stage, where leather jackets replaced kurtas, and where Bickram Ghosh stopped being just an accompanist and became a creator.
The innovations didn’t end with Rhythmscape. Bickram’s restless creativity led him to embrace technology, incorporating instruments like the Roland Handsonic and the SH-101 bass tone into his sound. He experimented with lower octave table tones, understanding that the low-end resonance of subwoofers captured the attention of younger audiences. He fused body percussion with tabla, creating performances that were not just musical but viscerally kinetic, reaching audiences far beyond classical purists. Yet despite being a percussionist, Bickram’s creative process often began not with rhythm, but melody—a gift he credits to his mother’s influence. His compositions bore hooks that lingered, melodies that audiences hummed long after the concert lights dimmed.
The cinematic world soon took notice. Film offers flooded in after Rhythmscape, and Bickram eventually scored music for over 50 films, blending his classical training with a melodic accessibility that resonated across audiences. One of his proudest moments came with “Avijatrik”, a continuation of Satyajit Ray’s revered Apu Trilogy, where he honoured the legacy of his mentor Pandit Ravi Shankar while stamping it with his own evolving identity, earning his first Filmfare Award. Fame could have easily diverted him, but Bickram remained fiercely authentic.
After a brief stint in acting—where he starred in a successful film—he consciously chose to walk away from cinema’s seductive pull, refusing over 35 offers to preserve his identity as a musician first and foremost. “If I act again,” he says, “Tt will have to elevate percussion or music in some meaningful way.”
Today, Bickram Ghosh stands as a testament to what can happen when tradition is treated not as a limitation but as a living, evolving foundation. From the disciplined strokes learned at his father’s feet to the explosive innovations that electrify global stages, he has crafted a career that defies labels. Indian classical, world music, film scores — Bickram Ghosh is all of these and yet distinctly more.
In a world too often divided by categories and conventions, Bickram’s music reminds us that the most profound artistry lies in the spaces between, in the fearless merging of old and new, East and West, body and instrument. As he once said, “Music is not bound by tradition or expectation—it is shaped by the worlds we live in, the people we meet, and the moments that stay with us long after the music has faded.”
Through Bickram Ghosh’s music, those moments—and their rhythms—continue to dance forever!
Authors can be contacted at shrd7746@gmail.com and sapna.narayan@gmail.com
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