Sahela re, p.1
Sahela Re, page 1
To my three wonderful gurus,
Dipali Nag, Ramdas Mungre and Pandit Vasant Vamanrao Thakar.
Contents
1. The Sarvajan Experiment
EPILOGUE
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Book
About the Author
Copyright
Sahela re, aa mili gaayein,
Sapt Suran ke bhed sunaayein,
janam janam ka sang na bhoolein,
abki milein toh bichhdi na jaayein.
Sahela re…
(Bandish Raga Bhoop)
O Friend, come let us sing together,
let us uncover the secrets of the Seven Surs,
let us not forget the bond that has survived many births,
may we never part when we meet again.
O Friend…
New Delhi
Dear Radha Dada,
How are you? I hope you remember your old friends, Vidya and Sanjeev, even after becoming a star publisher.
If you are wondering why someone would get in touch to remind you of the past, you have a point. Remembrance happens when it happens. Period. I asked you once if one remembers differently in English and Hindi – how Sanjeev and you had laughed at me!
You’ll probably tease me for being sentimental. Truth is, I have remembered you often, and for many reasons. Sometimes while reading a good book you have published, or while listening to music, especially while lazing in the winter sun.
Take for instance late last night, when I chanced upon Husnara Begum’s Shuddh Kalyan, ‘Mandar baajo, baajo re…’, being broadcast on the radio from an unknown station in some corner of the world. A whole sea of memories gushed in, and as I drowned in the music, I so missed Bhaiya and you.
Communications disappear fast in the digital world, and with them, memories. It has kicked out the art of writing letters by hand and replaced it with the email. And now one no longer knows what would happen if a system marked shared memories as spam and swept them off into some vast trash bin in cyberspace.
So, before you begin to inch towards the delete button, let me quickly spell out the second reason for getting in touch so shamelessly.
You may be aware that I have been researching the history of musical theatre for a while now. I have been trying to connect the threads related to the events leading up to its formative years, and changes over time that may have muffled the past. The problem is that our Education Department will reject a proposal such as this saying the subject does not conform to the parameters of the fellowships on offer currently.
I am left with only one option to finish my research on time: ask a publisher for advance royalties and add my own savings to fund my research. I don’t know about the state of the printing market. All I have heard is that digitally produced books from the West have started eating into even our meagre incomes. Even so, Dada, would you be willing to publish my work when completed and, in the meanwhile, also help me with an advance?
Please do not hesitate to say no. I realize I am pushing boundaries by writing to you suddenly after such a long silence and making demands. But I realize it is impossible for me at my age to see such an ambitious project through all on my own. And yes, as you might have guessed, I don’t wish to write to Bhaiya for help.
That was all I had to say. I’ll understand even if you choose not to reply.
With love,
Vidya
Lucknow
Dear Vidya Rani,
Your mail hit my inbox like a comet. I was surprised and, of course, quite delighted all at once. I remember your mother calling you Dhumketu, a comet. It was such an apt name coming from one who understood you the best.
And now, it is my turn to air grievances. I have been noticing that you have chosen to write most of your acclaimed academic tomes in English. So far, you have not published any of your well researched work in an Indian language. All that notwithstanding, I want you to know that whatever be your proposal, any publisher would be glad to receive it. That you thought me worthy of this honour, believe me, I am really grateful for that.
However, first things first. May I ask why you are still annoyed with your brother and my friend, Sanjeev? Honestly speaking, who are you actually angry with? Is it your Gandhian father, whose deep, unspoken dislike for mehfils, that to him reeked of a feudal hedonism, dragged your mother away from the two things which had been a big part of her upbringing: good music and musical baithaks?
Or are you angry at your mother, who meekly chose to curtail her singing after marrying your father, and took care to sing only behind closed doors, even singing under the shower whenever he was home. Remember, she was also the one who escorted Sanjeev and you to the Akashvani Sangeet Sammelans when he would be away?
Or is this humble descendant of your grandfather’s friend the real reason behind your anger? I, who’d enter your home through the back door like some contagious mosquito, bringing you all news about who sang what and all the gossip from those banned mehfils? One who so respected generational ties with your mother’s family that he saw to it that, despite your father’s hostility to it, you both got addicted to music?
Maybe you’ll put on your calm Buddhist nun-face and say that you don’t hold grudges against anyone.
But Munni, if you are not angry with any of us, then why have you avoided your poor brother for so long? Is it because Sanjeev was as gifted as his mother, but unlike her, would not let his talent succumb to a slow death under the burden of family expectations which he had been struggling to shrug off since his early years?
Why was it surprising that when the Stanford scholarship offer promised to open up so many horizons for him, he accepted it without even checking with your mother and you?
Are you disappointed with him because he decided to leave?
If fulfilling a deep desire by honest means is a crime, then aren’t you and I guilty of it as well?
True, Sanjeev left without providing much support for your widowed mother, leaving you, the remaining sibling, with several responsibilities. Also true that both mother and daughter may have had to suffer nasty asides about the irresponsible behaviour of a son with such promise. But don’t you see that, just like you, when Sanjeev saw an opportunity to fulfil his dreams, he could not afford to stay put any longer?
Or maybe somewhere in your mind you already understand this? And wait! Before your fingers start inching towards the delete button in irritation, hear me out.
My advice as well as precondition to advance royalties is that you rebuild your relationship with Sanjeev, just as you have done with me. You might be surprised to know this, but Sanjeev and I keep bumping into each other in different parts of the world. Let me tell you, I can sense he has been waiting long for the ice to thaw. I feel crushed each time I face his sad eyes with many unasked questions about you.
Anyway, think it over. You must know that I am not doing any favours by agreeing to publish your work on music. I am always happy when a good manuscript falls into my lap. And yes, I free you of all financial worries. Just send me your bank details.
Once again, please let go of your anger.
Radhaprasad
Delhi
Radha Dada,
Thank you for replying to my rather rambling mail. Well, if the sister of your best friend – a friend who is in a land far, far away – writes to you out of the blue, that’s reason enough to be surprised.
You are right. Sanjeev was the reason why I kept my distance. I guessed that the two of you must have been meeting every now and then, and I was a little scared that whatever he may have said to you about my silences could have bred misgivings in your mind. I was almost sure you might divert my mail to the spam box without even looking at it. Your reply reassured me.
To be honest, I no longer know why I have been cross with Bhaiya for such a long time. Could it be that, entangled in the web of familial memories sitting in a house that is slowly turning into a spinster’s unkempt abode, all cobwebs and dusty drapes, I simply forgot to let in fresh air or sunshine?
Once upon a time, our shared love for music used to be sunshine and fresh air in this house. Amma taught us to gulp in music like an elixir whenever we could despite Babu-ji’s well-recorded dislike for frivolity of any sort. Even after his death, when we fell on hard times, the legacy of music from Amma’s ancestors remained like a silken strand that drew the three of us and you close together.
Believe me, Amma’s reason for not going to live with Sanjeev was not because of a deeper attachment to me or a displeasure towards her son. It was just that she did not want to leave her own world of classical music and her traditions for an alien land. She had seen many of her friends who chose to live out their twilight years abroad turn into lost souls, hovering between two worlds. All of them told her they felt alone and humiliated when they were trotted out by their children among their friends or colleagues as specimens of a certain lost cultural tradition. To Amma, the very thought of becoming oriental exotica of some sort became more and more revolting as she aged.
I know that in her younger days, Amma with her father were as much a part of the musical events at your dear Dada-ji’s house as his own sons and daughters and their grandchildren. Amma talked often to Bhaiya and me about the mehfils she had watched from behind the bamboo blinds in the women’s quarters: the gharana ustads and divas like Roshan Ara Begum, Alladiya Sahib and Bhaskar Bua performing to a rapt audience. Most of those talented maestros are gone. It would be awful to see Amma’s eyes grow misty in her later years at the sight of the frail and listless ustads and pandits getting felicitated in wheelchairs in front of TV cameras. ‘Too late,’ she’d whisper, ‘too late!’
As you know so well, so long as Babu-ji was alive, there was an unannounced but absolute curfew on what he referred to as the kind of ‘mehfilbaazi’ in Amma’s natal home. But once, after Babu-ji’s death, when Amma got to know that Roshan Ara Begum had come down from Pakistan, she swallowed her pride and shyly let on how eager she was to see and hear the grand old lady of the Kirana gharana perform. ‘One can never know when we’ll get to hear such musicians next,’ she muttered as she was wont to do, always leaving her thoughts half unsaid. Ultimately, Sanjeev Bhaiya and I somehow managed to get three passes. It didn’t take much persuasion to get her to leave the house to hear the great Roshan Ara Begum sing at the Talkatora Stadium in Delhi.
It was then that we saw a glimpse of an entirely different bygone era of music, and the deep ties between the musicians and their ardent admirers from Amma’s generation.
When Roshan Ara Begum began and her voice struck pancham, the pristine fifth note, it pierced our insides like a koel’s sharp coo that leaves you breathless! The entire hall reverberated with the divine sound of her pancham for a while, and even the hardcore critics, ustads and pandits we’d seen quibbling over every little note, always eager to trash Pakistani singers, sat stunned and mesmerized by the magic of that one note. Each note in Roshan Ara’s seemingly simple alap that followed was like a robust blossom slowly unfurling its petals. And as we relished the fragrance of the composition, the silky voice leapt up into the higher octaves, and then suddenly, slyly, before we could recover our wits, it once again slid back to the lower and then the lowest scales. And all this, while her face remained joyful and serene, as if she were playfully tossing flowers in the air, even as she was savouring the juices of her favoured zarda within her scarlet mouth.
The drummer became possessed too. His beats came fast and thick, powerfully underscoring the completion of each cycle like bolts of lightning! Together, the singer and the percussionist swayed like a cobra and a snake charmer oblivious of the audience, totally conjoined in their own world of togetherness.
Roshan Ara was squat and dark of complexion, and her rather puffy-looking face was not really one from which one expected such rich music to emanate. But as she sang, her face had the soft sheen of a freshly plucked aubergine bathed in morning dew.
Oh, she loved glitter! Her ample body was sheathed in an outfit shimmering with gold. Her arms were laden with it; her neck and ears too. With the mildly flirtatious air of the beautiful woman passing gently by while strewing subtle inviting gestures for her paramours in Ghalib’s ‘Yaar ko chhed chali jaaye, Asad’, she began to sing for her long-lost followers. Her face wore an inscrutable smile as she broke into the lilting thumri, ‘Paani bhare ri kauno albele ki naar?’ (Who is the dandy whose beloved is drawing water from the well?).
After every shower of ‘Wah! Wah!’, she’d bend her neck ever so slightly and do a shy salaam.
After a while, she paused and said, ‘All my singing is just good fortune, bestowed upon me by Him. I am no expert as such. I had a father for an ustad who could melt your heart with his songs. Singers like Dhela Bai, Kesar, Gangu and Moghu Bai from Goa trained with me at my father’s feet. All of us received the same talim, and music flowed in our baithaks, day and night.
‘I do not know how it is here today, but khayal and tappa are not that popular in Pakistan any more. Among fauji marshals and brigadiers, it is usually some naat, or Bulle Shah’s ‘Heer’. That is what I am requested to sing mostly. This is like old times. Ya Khuda, what days those were!’
A few years after that, Bhaiya went away and settled abroad, and some years later, Amma died. But even today, I lose sleep each time I catch the sur of a long-forgotten bai, ustad or begum sahiba on the radio. As their pukar, their glorious call, falls on my ears, the faces and scenes from old baithaks begin to unfurl like a film in the mind.
Surrounded by fickle neo-converts to Indian music, you can imagine how my soul longs to delve into those age-old ragas and musicians’ lives fast evaporating in a grey mist and record their stories.
And that dirty mist is swirling all around us.
An aged dancer in Delhi, adept at networking, once talked me into attending a music fest sponsored by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs where she was the presenter. The performances were to be followed by drinks, which they’ve renamed as ‘Ras Ranjan’ to ward off the evil eye of the media teetotalers. Today, this ministry is considered to be the gateway to glamorous foreign tours at the government’s expense. In turn, bureaucrats in the ministry expect artistes to dance to their tunes because they are paying. When the name of a yesteryear singer came up, my friend the dancer casually said, ‘After Partition, that daughter of Chand Bai moved to Pakistan and settled in the red-light area of Moti Gate.’ I could see other ageing dancers and singers, who cavorted around famous patrons, nod in agreement.
Later, as the heavy drinking began and guests began chatting each other up, one heard a bureaucrat’s wife tell the presenter, ‘You were so right there. The aged ustads in gaudy kurtas or singers with heavy make-up and jewellery appear so uncouth, uncivilized and embarrassing when they perform abroad. This department should also teach these musicians proper English and better stage manners before sending them on foreign tours, or they are only good enough to sing at neighbourhood weddings.’
These words were greeted with laughter.
Then the seminar began. The topic was, ‘The Syncretic Ganga-Jamuni Tehzeeb in Hindustani Music and the Role of Women’. The daughter of an important politician was the main speaker. Organizing seminars around themes where music, media and women are tossed together is supposed to help strengthen the national profile through ‘soft diplomacy’. So, of late, I have noticed an effort to confer a peculiar aura upon our traditional courtesans, not as women who sang their way to reach the top in our performing arts, but as India’s earliest financially self-supporting feminists.
However, as soon as a female speaker comes on stage, several acidic gutters open up. Particularly if the talk moves on to the personal lives and mehfils of professional deredar tawaifs.
Once at such a talk show, a minister’s daughter, a poor singer burdened by many airs and wiles, and known for shamelessly copying Begum Akhtar’s naturally sonorous voice, began by talking about the contributions of the male ustads from the big gharanas (even theatrically touching her earlobes while uttering their names) and then spoke of professional female singers. She spoke not about their individuality but rather leeringly about their messy personal lives. And once she had set the ball rolling, other speakers delved lower. Talking about one Zohra Begum, one critic with a red caste-mark on his forehead said, ‘And why refer to her as “begum”? She should be called a “bai”. Her mother was actually the precocious daughter of a rich man who eloped with her Muslim ustad. Zohra Begum was born just six months later. When her father died, the greed to sing on the radio made her turn into Zohra Begum.’
As though on cue, a salivated titter went around among the young male audience in the hall.
You tell me, Radha Dada, how can these people crazed with sex and samosas even dare to take the names of Khan Sahib and Shyama Tai who embodied melody? As for Shyama Tai’s elopement, you and I both know that it was her father’s alcoholism and abuse after her mother’s death that led her to run off to a faraway village with her master.
Singers like Khan Sahib and Shyama Tai are not Hindus or Muslims. They didn’t just sing in courts or dargahs but also in the temples of the Dattatreya.
The last speaker thanked the one before him, and while masticating a paan, his mouth full of its juices, said that the authentic core of Indian music emanates from the sacred religious culture of our rishis and munis. Whatever knowledge of sur that the infidel Khan sahibs had acquired was from the company of pandit Hindu families like Shyama Tai’s. ‘Do you know,’ he added viciously, ‘when Khan Sahib’s car met with an accident and his blood-soaked body was laid on the ground, he was found to be in the pose of reading the namaz?’ The audience tittered again, just as the speaker had hoped.
