For centuries, the destinies of Rajasthan's Manganiyar musicians were dictated by their birth.
Lakha Khan, 66, learned the Sindhi sarangi from his father, who viewed it as his legacy to be passed down to future generations. The sarangi, a violin-shaped instrument played with a bow, has more than 20 strings. Lakha likens the difficulty of playing it to “climbing a rope using only your feet.â€
But his own sons couldn't be bothered to learn, he said, because it is too difficult.
Sakar Khan, 76, who is unrelated to Lakha Khan, plays the kamancha, also called the komaicha - also played with a bow, but with fewer strings than the sarangi. He has fared better in passing on his tradition - three of his sons play, each an accomplished musician in his own right. But his instrument, too, is in decline, some experts say, as many kamancha players' children take up easier instruments, or ev en forgo music altogether.
“The aesthetics of the music are changing,†said Shalini Ayyagari, an ethnomusicologist and professor of South Asian music at American University in Washington. “The komaicha is a difficult instrument to learn and even to tune, so I think this idea of being able to pick up the harmonium and the khartal is easier.â€
Ashutosh Sharma and Ankur Malhotra of the record label Amarrass see the decline of the kamancha and instruments like it as one of the many challenges to preserving the Manganiyars' folk music tradition.
In Sakar's village, Hamira, some 15 miles from the massive yellow sandstone fort of Jaisalmer, they knocked on the door of a carpenter who makes doors and furniture for many of the local families. His only training in instrument-making was watching his father construct drums for Manganiyars decades ago. Mr. Sharma and Mr. Malhotra are trying to bring the musicians and the carpenter together to fashion a new cr op of instruments.
Even if that effort succeeds, more than just musical skills and craftsmanship are disappearing.
Sakar and Lakha Khan have hundreds of songs living in their heads. On a recent visit to Hamira, Sakar played one that he wrote when the Indian rail service was extended to Jaisalmer in 1967, a whimsical tune that mimics the sound of a train leaving the station. Lakha played one about a liquor baron negotiating prices with a Rajput for his hunting party, a slice of life from pre-Independence India. Songs like these, which were rarely written down, are also fading with the next generation.
“It will go,†said Shubha Chaudhuri, an ethnomusicologist at the American Institute of Indian Studies in Gurgaon.  “But then, it's the way of all music. Natural transmission is failing.â€
More than anything, as the eldest generation of living Manganiyars ages, it is a way of life that is changing. After Lakha Khan ceases to play, his so ns will not be able to carry on his legacy. As for Sakar Khan, a typical day for him involves donning his white kurta and turban, playing, then setting his kamancha down after lunch and relaxing with a bit of opium. Several of his grandsons are learning to play, but they also put on jeans and T-shirts to attend school in the nearby city of Jaisalmer. During my visit to Hamira, one grandson confided he has a different career goal: he hopes to become an engineer.
