Of Fruit Cake and Kajri (2005, 48 hours)
If all grandads were to become like him, only Jesus could save my contemporaries. It is, still like it was in the past - takes courage to sit next to Shehnai God Ustad Bismillah Khan. Forget the musical aspect, he, belonging to the sharpest creed of grandads, catches you on what you thought he never heard. Worse still, he can sense conspiracies in your mind - quicker than your mom.
Khansahib, at any point of time, irrespective of how fit or unfit he is, has the energy to drop arsenals, of surprise, anger or disgust, just on anybody who wishes to talk about his music. And be prepared to sing - Kaafi, Basant, Yaman, Khamaj. It depends on the maestro's choice what he wants to grill you with. At least, that's what happened with me, about three years ago. Before I could ask the first question, I was grilled for more than an hour on what I understood of music.
On how I think Basant would sound if sung in July, of telling him how a particular composition in Hameer could not replace Krishna with Ram. A blasphemy, I had committed by bothering him around the namaaz time (the second round). I could hear, from inside the room, "Abhi bahar ruko. Namaz padhenge phir tumhari khabar lenge." And he did what he said. My first answer came, fortunately, after listening to answers, his versions on what he had asked me.
Visit two. Elections were close, so people from Mayawati's clan wanted to be "close" to the then sick maestro, with money and concern. They were vying to make way into the narrow Ustad Bismillah Khan Lane, just next to the narrower ones at Kabir Chaura, Benaras. The street where Pt Kishan Maharaj shares space with the now forgotten abodes of Pt Rajan and Sajan Mishra, legend Sitara Devi and others. And spending about three hours in this living room, where the Padma Awards hang dwarfed next to the Bharat Ratna, I heard "blessings" from the room up the winding staircase. Khansahib could not speak even then.
Third visit, greenroom, at a recent concert. Now, he is chuckling. Chuckling hard. The mischievous glint, secure in his eyes. Most cheerful, sitting on a sofa. Volunteers from Spicmacay, showering affection from all corners. His sons, busy tuning their respective share of instruments inherited rightfully from their father. Javed, his secretary, takes care that Ustadsahib obliges wives of a few babus in the greenroom with endless pictures. No, not any more, our man is fed up.
And you know a smile like his, would tire the sunken cheeks. I grab space on his left, on the floor. Ustadsahib shakes his head, later a finger, right in front of my nose. "Yeh ladki bahut ustad (here a different connotation, used mostly by and for UPwallahs) lagti hai." Javed drops in to do his job. Tries to remind Ustadsahib of how I was a guest when he was unwell. No, Khansahib would not pretend. He says, "Inke nana se bhi bade hain. My memory is fading. Don't remember when she came home but I made her sing once." Directions for this time. "Don't take out your kagaz kalam. I don't like people who note down things." We knew this would come up. That's why entered the greenroom empty handed.
A plate of cakes passes in front of him, making way to his sons. He directs the volunteer. "Keep it here. Next to me. Their teeth are intact. Give them something else. I am just left with two, cake is perfect for me."
A piece for me. Another one for a student from down South, who does not understand what Khansahib lectures on kajri. Language constraints. But listens when Ustadsahib throws the staple string of taans. One after the other. "Jam ke khaya karo. Look at me. Have to force myself against my age to get ragas out of my shehnai." He adds, "My late uncle, Ali Bux, who played at the Vishwanath Temple, rewarded me with sweets after riyaz. I would save a few pieces for bad times, specially when mamu refused to reward me, owing to my carelessness with the instrument."
He remembers how his uncle got a miniature shehnai made for him. With holes specially placed to fit his fingers' span. "I loved him and he loved me," he tells us, with tears in his eyes. Another piece of cake goes into his mouth and one is directed to us. I refuse. He stores that one in his hand.
Sings a taan in kaafi. And what art! Percussion mingled with non-percussion, in just one throat.
Telling volumes on how Ustad Bismillah Khan would not need a tabla if given a choice. He asks me. "Sur ke pakke ho ki nahi? I was taught to even abuse in sur, thanks to my mama. If you are not strong in sur you are a fool." I nod a yes. "Dekhenge. I will sing a taan, you carry on with sa. Just hum." I obey. We finish. He laughs. His youngest son, whom Khansahib calls Nannhe Khan, smiles. I ask Ustadsahib, looking towards Nannhe, "He is the dearest one?" "Sabse pyaara. He keeps me going when I am unwell and low."
Father-son chemistry begins and ends at music. The concert extends, this time a bandish in Khamaj, Nannhe gives the theka on tabla. Both meet at the samm. Another roaring laughter. Tuning gets more intense. Ustadsahib is forced to end the conversation. Takes out his shehnai from the laced jhola. "Lahaul vila kuwat, I am getting late for tuning. You chat a lot," says he, tapping on my head. Only if this phase continues for a decade or more, one would be forced to believe that God likes music.
copyright: The Pioneer
If all grandads were to become like him, only Jesus could save my contemporaries. It is, still like it was in the past - takes courage to sit next to Shehnai God Ustad Bismillah Khan. Forget the musical aspect, he, belonging to the sharpest creed of grandads, catches you on what you thought he never heard. Worse still, he can sense conspiracies in your mind - quicker than your mom.
Khansahib, at any point of time, irrespective of how fit or unfit he is, has the energy to drop arsenals, of surprise, anger or disgust, just on anybody who wishes to talk about his music. And be prepared to sing - Kaafi, Basant, Yaman, Khamaj. It depends on the maestro's choice what he wants to grill you with. At least, that's what happened with me, about three years ago. Before I could ask the first question, I was grilled for more than an hour on what I understood of music.
On how I think Basant would sound if sung in July, of telling him how a particular composition in Hameer could not replace Krishna with Ram. A blasphemy, I had committed by bothering him around the namaaz time (the second round). I could hear, from inside the room, "Abhi bahar ruko. Namaz padhenge phir tumhari khabar lenge." And he did what he said. My first answer came, fortunately, after listening to answers, his versions on what he had asked me.
Visit two. Elections were close, so people from Mayawati's clan wanted to be "close" to the then sick maestro, with money and concern. They were vying to make way into the narrow Ustad Bismillah Khan Lane, just next to the narrower ones at Kabir Chaura, Benaras. The street where Pt Kishan Maharaj shares space with the now forgotten abodes of Pt Rajan and Sajan Mishra, legend Sitara Devi and others. And spending about three hours in this living room, where the Padma Awards hang dwarfed next to the Bharat Ratna, I heard "blessings" from the room up the winding staircase. Khansahib could not speak even then.
Third visit, greenroom, at a recent concert. Now, he is chuckling. Chuckling hard. The mischievous glint, secure in his eyes. Most cheerful, sitting on a sofa. Volunteers from Spicmacay, showering affection from all corners. His sons, busy tuning their respective share of instruments inherited rightfully from their father. Javed, his secretary, takes care that Ustadsahib obliges wives of a few babus in the greenroom with endless pictures. No, not any more, our man is fed up.
And you know a smile like his, would tire the sunken cheeks. I grab space on his left, on the floor. Ustadsahib shakes his head, later a finger, right in front of my nose. "Yeh ladki bahut ustad (here a different connotation, used mostly by and for UPwallahs) lagti hai." Javed drops in to do his job. Tries to remind Ustadsahib of how I was a guest when he was unwell. No, Khansahib would not pretend. He says, "Inke nana se bhi bade hain. My memory is fading. Don't remember when she came home but I made her sing once." Directions for this time. "Don't take out your kagaz kalam. I don't like people who note down things." We knew this would come up. That's why entered the greenroom empty handed.
A plate of cakes passes in front of him, making way to his sons. He directs the volunteer. "Keep it here. Next to me. Their teeth are intact. Give them something else. I am just left with two, cake is perfect for me."
A piece for me. Another one for a student from down South, who does not understand what Khansahib lectures on kajri. Language constraints. But listens when Ustadsahib throws the staple string of taans. One after the other. "Jam ke khaya karo. Look at me. Have to force myself against my age to get ragas out of my shehnai." He adds, "My late uncle, Ali Bux, who played at the Vishwanath Temple, rewarded me with sweets after riyaz. I would save a few pieces for bad times, specially when mamu refused to reward me, owing to my carelessness with the instrument."
He remembers how his uncle got a miniature shehnai made for him. With holes specially placed to fit his fingers' span. "I loved him and he loved me," he tells us, with tears in his eyes. Another piece of cake goes into his mouth and one is directed to us. I refuse. He stores that one in his hand.
Sings a taan in kaafi. And what art! Percussion mingled with non-percussion, in just one throat.
Telling volumes on how Ustad Bismillah Khan would not need a tabla if given a choice. He asks me. "Sur ke pakke ho ki nahi? I was taught to even abuse in sur, thanks to my mama. If you are not strong in sur you are a fool." I nod a yes. "Dekhenge. I will sing a taan, you carry on with sa. Just hum." I obey. We finish. He laughs. His youngest son, whom Khansahib calls Nannhe Khan, smiles. I ask Ustadsahib, looking towards Nannhe, "He is the dearest one?" "Sabse pyaara. He keeps me going when I am unwell and low."
Father-son chemistry begins and ends at music. The concert extends, this time a bandish in Khamaj, Nannhe gives the theka on tabla. Both meet at the samm. Another roaring laughter. Tuning gets more intense. Ustadsahib is forced to end the conversation. Takes out his shehnai from the laced jhola. "Lahaul vila kuwat, I am getting late for tuning. You chat a lot," says he, tapping on my head. Only if this phase continues for a decade or more, one would be forced to believe that God likes music.
copyright: The Pioneer
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