In the foothills of Mt. Hiei, in north-east Kyoto, is a Japanese cultural centre dedicated to the dance. Designed by the same architect who planned the State Guest House, it is a sprawling complex of rooms, magnificent gardens, stages, and halls. When money is little object, this is the result.
The first room into which I was shown was a large reception room with Regency-style sofas and chairs. The window, which stretched completely along one wall, looked out onto a raised garden of pink azaleas, into which large rocks had been set, with small paths leading up behind them. It was rather like looking into a silent aquarium.
Another long wall was made completely of black lacquer, with intricate and wonderfully conceived mother-of-pearl inlay. Though considerably simpler, the conception reminded me of the Amber Room in the Catherine Palace near St. Petersburg. A large sea-shell on a small table nearby bore similar patterns on the inside.
On the second floor was a large hall with a stage and all the accompanying paraphernalia of lights and curtains. There was a large pine tree painted on the back board for the Noh theatre. Gods are said to descend into the human world from it.
Next, the main event room was of some sixty mats. On one side of the room was a continuation of the previous garden, and on the other, a breathtaking view of Mt. Hiei, and another large garden planted with pines, cherries, and maples. It was surrounded by a low wall, tiled with a little roof. You felt it would really be possible to sit there forever just to contemplate this magnificent garden and its seasonal changes.
In the centre of the room were two parallel sets of black tables below which guests were able to lower their legs into a carpeted trench. Unlike the kotatsu, the sunken Japanese heater used in the winter, they were not heated.
The gardens could be shut out by closing the moon-viewing screens which ran along the inside of the room on fusuma rails. At one end was a large tokonoma with shelves to one side, in the shoin style, accompanied by a large vase with a peony design, and an arrangement of purple wisteria. I could make out only two of the four characters on the scroll: “pine” and “congratulations”. Even my Japanese friends could not decipher the other two, a common occurrence.
The quality of the workmanship throughout was outstanding. Hinoki had been used extensively, and the grain of the wood was beautifully chosen and exposed in the fusuma and the ceilings. It gladdened the heart to see this level of craftsmanship and attention to detail.
Kyoto is a city where the traditional arts, crafts, and “Ways” still flourish strongly. It is not unusual for one family to have been making a particular item for hundreds of years, and to be still making it. I think of a shop near my own home, which has been making soy sauce for more than three-hundred years, and continues to do so, “the traditional way”, in large wooden tubs. I can affirm that their soy sauce tastes like wine.
The same applies to Japanese sweets, tea, knives, pottery, fans, bamboo items, or a host of other things. On the surface, Japan might appear thoroughly Westernized, particularly as regards technology, but there is a very strong and thriving unique culture which reflects the rather traditional and conservative mind-set of the Japanese people, many of whose ancestors were peasant-farmers, resistant to, and fearful of, change. Once begun, a tradition or ritual is liable to be carried forward here for centuries and preserved as nowhere else. The Way of Tea and Zen are just two examples of spiritual disciplines which have died out almost completely in their original country, China, but which still flourish in Japan.
At one end of the hall was a chair covered with a white sheet, for the guru. Next to it on a low table, was a superb arrangement of white lilies, yellow orchids, and red roses. In front, sat five Japanese students of the santur, an Indian musical instrument resembling a zither. It has ninety-seven metal strings, (mercifully reduced from one hundred), which are struck with two wooden sticks. I shuddered to think of the tuning required. Various microphones and tape recorders lay about. A video camera was set to record the session.
The Japanese students had come from all over Japan to take part in a seven-day workshop under the direction of a living Indian National Treasure. Two others, an Indian husband and wife, had flown in especially from Los Angeles. Today was the last day, and I had been invited to watch the lesson from a respectful distance.
Each of the students was wearing the appropriate Indian clothes, usually linen or cotton, and had long hair, tied up in a ponytail. One had dreadlocks as well. The bearded gentleman from Los Angeles strode about wearing a black turban and white clothes. I suspected his name was probably Singh, though I saw no evidence of a dagger or bracelet. Everyone gave greetings by placing the palms together, as in prayer.
My Japanese host wore a long purple garment with a gold pendant hanging on his chest. He is one of Japan’s foremost santur players, with several CDs to his name. The atmosphere was decidedly exotic and foreign. If Japanese are going to do something, they go for it whole hog. These students had clubbed together to pay for the teacher’s air fare, hotel bill, event rental, and the magnificent flower arrangement.
I was advised that if I was introduced to the teacher, I was to kneel down and touch his feet with both hands, a suggestion I found rather embarrassing. Though I understand its significance, kneeling respectfully at someone’s feet, even a living National Treasure, is not something that comes easily to a Westerner. The act is similar, I suppose, to kissing the ring of a high-ranking Roman Catholic prelate. I was also to address him as guruji—“Master.”
An abbot from a Zen temple in Hiroshima was also present, and we spent a lot of time talking about our respective backgrounds and experiences. He had trained at one of Kyoto’s famous temples, Kenninji, and later brought me a cup of dark Japanese tea, worrying that he had made it too strong.
I admired his home-made bamboo cup, and asked him if it didn’t get mouldy. He said that if bamboo is cut during the new moon in a certain season, when the sap is no longer rising, then it will not go mouldy. I thought of the two mouldy bamboo cups I had at home, and wished that his knowledge had been more widely known, especially to me. They had obviously been cut at the wrong time. He lit a small stick of incense from another home-made bamboo box, and the fragrant smoke wafted about, perfuming the room delicately.
After a considerable wait, the guru finally appeared. He was seventy-nine years old and had been taking a nap, as well as having had to, “make some very important phone calls”, (probably to India).
I was rather surprised by how tall and thin he was. With his pale skin colour he might almost have passed as a Westerner. He had a helmet of frizzy gray hair which matched his gray clothes and shawl. As a living Indian National Treasure, he was said to have the kind of talent that appears only once every four hundred years. (Like the Vatican, Indians think in centuries.) The concept of a living National Treasure is one foreign to the West. Perhaps it is because our individualistic culture is afraid that the god-like designation might go to a recipient’s head.
Before he sat down, he asked for some tea— “special tea” he said—with a twinkle in his eye, ironically mocking his own elevated, semi-divine status.
He sat down in the draped chair and folded his legs under him as best he could. My friend, the interpreter, sat cross-legged beside him. There had been a lot of tuning of instruments going on, but finally everyone was ready. The students sat with their instrument resting on their legs. It cannot be a comfortable position, either for the back or the legs, and must take quite some getting used to.
The guru was apparently able to give a three hour concert and then to get up straightaway and thank the audience. In my own experience with the Way of Tea, I have often seen a tea teacher kneel for three hours, without moving, and then walk straight out of the tearoom, as if they had been sitting for only three minutes. Many Japanese nowadays are no longer used to sitting on the floor or tatami, and find it a considerable strain, hence the widespread use of tables and chairs in the modern home.
“Today, we are only going to revise everything” he says, (in English). I loved the understatement in the words “only” and “everything.”
“Now, one by one, from the beginning.”
He named a particular evening raga, and the Japanese tabla player, himself a virtuoso, started up, the tap of the drum instantly magnetising me, and drawing me in.
Dressed in black Indian clothes, he began to beat his two drums, one with a very liquid and reverberant tone, and the other sharp and dry – tap, tap, tap. He had previously tuned them by striking the small wooden pegs through which the cords run and which regulate the tension in the drumhead. He had also put some kind of talc on his hands to stop them slipping and to give a better grip. The beats were very rhythmic and complicated. I admired his consummate skill at keeping the two going simultaneously. I think he had begun learning at the age of four. Perhaps he, too, would one day become a living National Treasure.
One of the santur players began hitting the plangent strings up and down in runs. I heard a lot of what seemed to me to be the harmonic minor scale, with its distinctive augmented second, the kind of scale which gives an exotic flavour to Turkish, Egyptian, or Arabic music. With thousands of years of development, however, the Indians have their own sophisticated musical scales, modes, and rhythmic patterns, and have no need of ours.
One by one, the students performed the same raga,and the guru said “Good”, and sometimes even, “Very good.” He was a man of few words.
It soon became obvious that some students were more advanced than others. A smile broke on guruji`s face, and I could see that he was actually unpretentious, and had a sense of humour. He sat with his eyes closed and with a look of intense concentration, almost as if he were in ecstasy. From time to time, he sang some of the raga to illustrate a point, and would then say, folding his arms,
“Now take it from the sixth beat.”
Even as a classically-trained musician, I had no idea quite where the sixth beat was, but the tabla player, the students, and the interpreter, knew at once and began to play simultaneously. The exotic music made it sound as if we might be in Hyderabad or New Delhi instead of a quiet corner of Kyoto on a beautiful May afternoon.
“Da, da, DAH, da,” sang the guru, (in Hindi), emphasizing the offbeat, and reminding me of the sudden sforzandos so beloved by Beethoven that catch the listener unawares. In his Surprise symphony, Hayden impishly tried the same thing, saying, “This will make the ladies scream!” Here, the coincidence of beats between the players seemed to be a large part of the deep enjoyment of the music, indicating their skill in arriving at the same point, despite some very complicated rhythmic and melodic improvisations on the way.
The students took the raga up en masse.
“Correct”, said the guru, succinctly.
The “special tea” arrived, together with some biscuits in a bowl. The guru took a sip, and a bite.
The whole room was now vibrating with four santur going pell mell, and I felt that I would like to get up and dance. I saw the guru’s toes tapping as well.
The lesson went on for three hours, and I felt special sympathy for both the guru and the tabla player, who had had no rest at all, while the students at least had had a chance to take a break, even if a short one.
“You must practice turns every day”, the guru said, finally. “Take them slowly at first. This will allow you to get the right use of the sticks and the tone. Gradually, you can increase the speed. But you must practice every day. Has anyone any questions?”
No one had. (Perhaps Japanese etiquette forbad questions. Perhaps—and more likely— the guru’s teaching had left no doubts about what was required.)
It was time for the group photograph, in which I was included, despite not having taken part, or even having been introduced to the guru, perhaps fortunately for me. The Zen abbot made a prostration and left early, for he had to catch the train back to Hiroshima.
After the many photos, the guru left the room and everyone milled about chatting for a while, until he was ready to return to his hotel. He was seen off at the entrance with many respectful bows, and I returned to the main room to take one final look at the magnificent garden. High in the sky over Mt. Hiei the moon had already risen, and cast an ethereal, mysterious light over everything.
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Malcolm Ledger has contributed a number of writings to the WiK website. His poems can be found here and here.
Other works can be found as follows:
Prologue to a War
An Unveiling
Ohigan
Finally, Malcolm’s prizewinning entry for the WiK Seventh Annual Kyoto Writing Competition, “Plum Tree by the Eaves”, can be read here.