BADA KHAYAL : BOOK REVIEW

THE MUSIC ROOM

Namita Devidayal
New Delhi: Random House India, 2007
ISBN: 9788184000122; Rs 395/-

Autobiographical in texture, woven with a deep respect for Hindustani music and embellished by colourful motifs of anecdotes, Devidayal’s ‘The Music Room’ is a compelling tapestry for all music lovers.
In 1968 an unwilling ten year old Namita, forced by her mother, starts to learn singing from Dhondutai Kulkarni, who lives in a tiny one room tenement amidst the stench and squalour of Kennedy Bridge, Bombay. Unmindful of her surroundings, Dhondutai has one desire: to pass on the glorious tradition of her Jaipur gharana to a deserving student. In Namita she finds her ‘Kesar’, that is, a replica of Kesarbai Kerkar, her revered guru. Unenthusiastic in the beginning, Namita learns to appreciate her bass voice as a God-given gift. However, she finds her musical ancestry, starting with the legendary Alladiya Khan, daunting. Khan Sahib’s lineage includes his brother, sons, nephew, grandson, coming down to Kesarbai with her bewitching voice, and finally, the self-effacing Dhondutai.
While we read about Alladiya Khan Sahib’s devotion to music, we also get a glimpse of the decadence of Indian princes of the late 1880s, who nevertheless were patrons of artistes. One refined exception was Shahu Maharaj of Kolhapur, who was instrumental in bringing Khan Sahib from Bombay to his princely state.
There are many touching incidents that establish the divinity of music, it being neither Hindu nor Muslim. Nathan Khan, Alladiya Khan Sahib’s nephew, once had to stay overnight at the house of Bhaskarbua Bakhale, his pupil. Early next morning when Bhaskarbua found his uncle, a staunch Brahmin and devotee of Shiva coming towards the house, he hurriedly woke up Nathan Khan explaining the situation to him. Nathan Khan just asked for his tanpura and launched into an ode to Shiva in Raag Bhairavi. The uncle was so overwhelmed that at the end he touched Nathan Khan’s feet and said, “I have been worshipping Shiva for the last several years, but I actually saw Him today.”
At one music conference, another stalwart, Balkrishnabua was resting, his eyes closed, when Amir Khan’s son approached him, introducing himself. Not opening his eyes, the senior asked him to prove who he was. Only when the young lad sang for a while, did the pleased Balkrishnabua open his eyes and looking upon the young man said, “You also look like Amir Khan.”
By the 1920s the patronage of artistes had passed on to rich mill owners of Bombay, where Kesarbai was an upcoming singer. Stung to tears by the rude remark of an established diva, she vowed to become the world’s greatest vocalist. She sought out a befitting guru in Alladiya Khan. Moving to Kolhapur and only after a long trial, braving many hardships could Kesarbai master the magnificent style of the Jaipur gharana,
When she became the uncrowned queen of that gharana, she spewed out the misery from years of indignity and pain in venomous barbs at unsuspecting family, fans, friends and foes alike. Even Prime Minister Indira Gandhi did not escape a verbal smack. Kesarbai was so affected by the early years of insults heaped on her as a bai (merely an entertaining singer) that she did not allow her only daughter Suman, to come anywhere close to music. Suman went on to become a doctor, got married and had children and led a ‘normal’ life.
We have in this book an unforgettable collage of Kesarbai: her pearls and diamonds, her silks and chiffons, her cigarettes and gambling, her excellent cooking, her foul haranguing tongue and her divine voice. Incidentally this is the only voice, trapped on a 78rpm record, in a time capsule, somewhere in the innards of space.
Dhondutai as a young girl is taken to Alladiya Khan’s son, Bhurji Khan, to learn music, by her strong willed father. After being accepted as his pupil, she becomes a part of the Khan household, but being a Brahmin she cannot eat or drink in that house. Her guru empties out his treasury of music for Dhondutai and she inherits the gems of rare compositions and exotic ragas. After years she timidly approaches Kesarbai for further tutoring. Reluctantly Kesarbai accepts this pupil, and then begins a journey of rigorous riyaaz, insults and tears.
At one point, Kesarbai sings fifty different taans in a particular order and demands that Dhondutai sing those immediately, perfectly and in the same order! Over time the eccentric teacher mellows towards her sincere and simple student.
Family circumstances take Dhondutai away to Delhi, just when she is set to take her place centre stage as the true inheritor of the Jaipur gharana. By the time she can return to Bombay at the behest of some affluent and discerning fans of the gharana, she is past her prime and almost unknown to the new audiences.
After a few years of learning from Dhondutai, Namita leaves for Princeton on a scholarship, snuffing out the former’s hope of passing on the torch of blazing Jaipur gayaki. Before leaving India, Namita is taken to Kolhapur to sing at the ancient temple of Mahalakshmi. They sit at the very spot from where Alladiya Khan would sing to the Goddess. Guru and shishyaa sing Sukhiya Bilawal ‘with all (their) aspirations, fears, memories and resolutions’.
Kolhapur was where it had started and that is where it will stop. There would be no more singers of this line of the Jaipur gharana, no discerning listeners and no wealthy patrons. Perhaps the distinctions between gharanas would exist no more.
What will long linger are the notes of Devidayal’s memorable bada khayal.

~Chanda Bhide
Written on 22 September 2008
Bangalore

BOOK REVIEW: MOTHER COUNTRY

MOTHER COUNTRY
Elisabeth Russell Taylor
London: Peter Owen: 1992

CHANDA A BHIDE, Bangalore, India
moonstream@rediffmail.com

‘How did you break your arm, little girl?’
‘I fell’, I lie. But I keep my head down.
‘How did you come by this burn?’
‘I brushed against the fire.’
‘How did you get these bruises?’
‘I bumped…. I fell...’

Antonia Sinclair’s battered childhood comes back hauntingly with its animal-like cry of pain, when she visits her dying mother several years after leaving home.
The daughter of a German Jewish mother and an aristocratic English father, Antonia remembers childhood as a penitentiary, where her egoistic mother inflicts torture on her. As a three year old she is locked up in a broom cupboard for hours, for no apparent reason. At nine she is accused of cutting up her mother’s best clothes and smashing their antique buttons, for which she is taken to an occultist who calls himself a psychiatrist, and declares her a schizophrenic.
At the beginning of the Second World War she is packed off to a boarding school where she receives no letters, birthday cards or gifts. No one visits her, except, her mother’s lover: Walter with his silk handkerchiefs, Seville-row suits and suave manners, showers attention on Antonia. He takes his ‘liebchen’ to the zoo, concerts and pantomimes. Her happiness in his company engenders the only true love she ever experiences, but her turbulent childhood has left her emotionally mangled. Walter’s death leaves her in a permanent state of brinkmanship.
As an archeologist, her interest in the ancient ritual of child sacrifice makes her accept an invitation to Israel. Returning to England, she is ambivalent about settling down in Israel by accepting the offered ‘Right to Return’; but an article she reads about an abused child who takes revenge on his abuser, makes the decision for her. On returning to her Mother Country she finds that she cannot escape her past but has ‘re-entered it through another door’. Israel, like many an abused child, has become an abuser. Gradually, Antonia thaws emotionally. She gets killed by an Arab who becomes suspicious of her friendliness.
Mother Country moves back and forth in time, skillfully weaving a cruel past with a decadent present. Russell Taylor’s first person narration leads one through the mental labyrinths of the abused as well as of the abuser. She compares Antonia’s torture with a sacrifice of an impure child.
Antonia is cynical while describing her mother: ‘a witch, if she had a conscience, it never reproached her’; her father: ‘a man with all the subtlety of a spur and a whip’; her sister: ‘all imaginative possibilities were bleached from existence by her mere presence’. Her life with Walter is described with lyrical sensitivity, around a liebchen rosebush..
In a world where child abuse has become passé this book may not leave a gaping wound in one’s heart. It does, however, leave in one’s throat a painful lump which refuses to dissolve.