In The Secret Master: Arun Kashalkar and a Journey to the Edge of Music (2025), Sumana Ramanan undertakes a delicate archival and affective task: to write a biography of a musician whose legacy thrives less in mainstream cultural memory and more in the intimate circuits of discipleship, recordings, and oral recollection. This makes the book not merely a chronicle of a classical vocalist’s life; it is an inquiry into how artistic greatness can coexist with relative anonymity, and how musical lineages are sustained through a crossing of individual faith rather than rampant publicity.Ramanan’s central intervention lies in resisting the predictable arc of the “genius biography.” Instead of presenting her subject as a solitary prodigy marching toward inevitable acclaim, she situates him within the ecosystems of Hindustani classical music – its gharanas, pedagogical traditions, and shifting performance cultures of the twentieth century. The narrative becomes less about celebrity and more about continuity: how music survives through rigorous training, disciplined listening, and the transmission of subtle aesthetic values that cannot be easily codified.The Secret Master: Arun Kashalkar and a Journey to the Edge of Music, Sumana Ramanan, Context, 2025.What distinguishes the book is its rapt attentiveness to sound as lived experience. Ramanan writes not only about concerts and accolades but about the textures of riyaaz, the fatigue and ecstasy of long rehearsals, the politics of accompaniment, and the social milieus in which music circulates. The prose often approaches music obliquely – through metaphors, anecdotes, and the recollections of students – acknowledging the impossibility of fully translating sonic experience into language. In doing so, the book avoids the trap of technical jargon that alienates general readers, while still offering enough specificity to satisfy those familiar with classical traditions.Yet The Secret Master is also a meditation on invisibility. The title itself gestures toward a paradox: mastery that remains “secret”, which is not necessarily marginal but may instead be insulated within communities of engaging connoisseurship. Ramanan’s commentary implicitly questions the criteria by which cultural memory is constructed. Why do certain artists become household names while others remain revered only among insiders? The book subtly critiques the market logics and media structures that privilege spectacle over substance, suggesting that artistic value and public recognition do not always align.At times, this reflective ambition produces moments of narrative diffusion. The reader occasionally senses that the author’s admiration for her subject leads to an overabundance of testimonial voices, which, while heartfelt, can blur the analytical edge. However, these digressions also mirror the very nature of musical memory – fragmented, collective, and resistant to linear storytelling. The book’s structure, moving between biography, interview, and cultural history, ultimately becomes its strength rather than its weakness, embodying the layered reality of artistic legacy.One particularly telling incident occurs in Ramanan’s account of a full-length mehfil where Arun Kashalkar, despite being widely admired by the small circle of connoisseurs present, performs to a sparsely filled foyer of the Homi Bhabha Auditorium at the Tata Institute of Fundamental Research. Ramanan does not dramatise the episode; rather, she notes the singer’s unwavering immersion in the raga, the attentive handful of listeners, and the quiet dispersal at the end of the concert. The description functions as a microcosm of the book’s central thesis: mastery here is not validated by numbers or spectacle but by depth of engagement. The scene also exemplifies Ramanan’s larger argument about invisibility – not as failure, but as a condition produced by the uneven economies of attention that structure our cultural life. The power of the passage lies in its restraint; the author allows the contrast between artistic intensity and public indifference to speak for itself.Ramanan’s work is particularly effective in foregrounding pedagogy. The guru–shishya relationship emerges not as a romantic relic but as a complex, evolving practice shaped by modernity, urbanisation, and institutionalisation. The author does not idealise this system; she acknowledges its hierarchies and exclusions while also emphasising its capacity to nurture deep artistic commitment. In an era increasingly defined by digital dissemination and short-form attention spans, the book reads as a quiet defense of slow learning and immersive engagement.Importantly, The Secret Master speaks beyond the niche of classical music enthusiasts. It functions as a broader cultural commentary on how societies remember their artists and how biography can serve as both documentation and advocacy. Ramanan’s writing invites readers to reconsider the metrics of success and to value forms of excellence that do not always translate into mass visibility. In this sense, the book participates in a larger conversation about cultural preservation, archival responsibility, and the ethics of storytelling.Stylistically, the prose is measured and lucid, avoiding sensationalism. Ramanan’s restraint allows the subject’s artistry to emerge through carefully chosen episodes rather than dramatic embellishment. The tone is one of respectful curiosity rather than hagiography, even when admiration is evident. This balance ensures that the book remains accessible without becoming simplistic, scholarly without turning opaque.Ultimately, The Secret Master is less a definitive portrait than an invitation – to listen more attentively, to question dominant narratives of fame, and to appreciate the quiet endurance of artistic traditions. Its value lies not only in resurrecting the memory of a remarkable musician but also in demonstrating how biography can become a form of cultural stewardship. For readers of performance studies, the book offers a timely reminder that the most enduring contributions to art often occur away from the glare of publicity, sustained instead by communities of practice and care.In foregrounding the “secret” as a space of depth rather than obscurity, Ramanan crafts a work that resonates as both homage and critique. The result is a biography that does more than inform – it prompts reflection on what it means to recognise, remember, and revere artistic mastery in contemporary times.Shantanu Majee is an associate professor at the Department of English in Techno India University, West Bengal.