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Photography and Text by Darshan Manakkal
Under a neem tree in old Varanasi, lies buried an Ustad. Over nine decades ago his grandfather had exclaimed “Bismillah,” when he saw him for the very first time. A name that the Ustad would carry with him through fame, fortune and many years of penury right up to his grave. In the 90 years that he lived, Bismillah enchanted the world, and the sometimes sweet, sometimes vigorous sound of his shehnai came to stand for all of India. One wintry morning two years ago, I found myself in the same room as the legend himself.
“Bismillah” is a name I grew up with in the decades before television. A time from when, all the memories that remain are just yellowing black and white photographs. The radio was then the undisputed centerpiece of every Indian living room. At home, my father worked an unwavering schedule around the large wooden radio set he’d built himself. Dinner was chewed to the somber accompaniment of the 9pm AIR news bulletin. And every morning the radio set cranked into life again and unfailingly Ustad Bismillah Khan’s golden shehnai welcomed in a new dawn all over India.
So, it was with a pregnant sense of occasion that I was ushered into a
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scrimpy hotel room in the winter of 2005. Sitting in a creaky wooden single bed, his arthritic feet wrapped in bandages, was the Ustad himself. The wizard who captured the imagination of the world, with his shehnai, on the eve of India’s independence at Red Fort. Who would three years later return to the Red Fort to pour his heart into Raga Kafi as India became a republic. Above all the man himself in flesh and bone who blew magic through his wooden pipe every single morning on my father’s oversized radio set.
As I touched the Ustad’s gnarled feet I was paying my respects, to the man, his music and all of India too. That sense of elation in meeting one of India’s biggest legends was a huge first. Yet a knotty feeling at the back of my head let me know that this meeting was also going to be a sad last. At 89, the Ustad seemed a little under the years. A thin veneer of cataract glossed over his eyes and his skin creased up in loose folds. Still you could not miss the intensity of a true virtuoso. When you’re in the same room with somebody like that, you can feel it – as thick as a brick. And then there was that laugh. At once both cantankerous and wild, it boomed across the sparse hotel room. His princely beard, the one pierced ear and two piercing eyes made doubly sure you knew where you were, in the presence of a genius.
Beyond the Ustad, on a bedside table his steadfast shehnai and a packet of Wills Navy Cut cigarettes waited patiently, forever within reach – his only indulgences. In the corner lay a rolled up prayer mat that served the devout Ustad faithfully, five times every day. I’d plodded in barefoot into this setting with a bag full of apprehensions and fears. Just the previous night in concert, miffed with an overly enthusiastic audience hankering for more, the Ustad had stopped midway and then irritated, proceeded to inform them about their complete lack of appreciation of Hindustani classical music. In a final act of disgust he’d shoved away the microphone. The show was over. The crowd smiled on somewhat dimly. They didn’t understand the Ustad’s rage. They were touched by his genius and clapped well into the night after the Ustad’s assistants had wheeled him away.
Now, I do not pretend to understand the finer nuances of Hindustani classical, nor do I lay any claims to being an intrepid scribe. Even as I fumbled to find my first question, the Ustad already had his first. “Sangeet ke baare mein kya jaante ho?” My fumbling worsened. His famed temper had taken over, without provocation. Fumbling gave way to disbelief as he exclaimed, “thappad maar ke bhej doonga!” Surely it was going to be all downhill from here.
Then again without warning, he broke into alaap. One wrinkled hand cupped his pierced ear. Another pointed skywards. His eyes rolled up in musical bliss and the jot of a genial smile appeared. Thankful for the change of heart, I was slowly beginning to comprehend that this was not to be the average interview. I was to ask no questions. The Ustad would tell me what he wished. And it was up to me to try and keep pace.
Convention though, has never been Ustad Bismillah Khan’s forte. Inspired by his uncle he chose to continue his family’s musical legacy with a shehnai – an instrument confined to wedding halls. From there he catapulted to international fame and his shehnai followed him from Afghanistan to Japan.
Though he nursed a notorious fear of flying, his music has regaled millions across the globe. Still he resisted the luxuries of fame, opting instead for the bucolic comforts of Varanasi. The local administration there once tried installing an air conditioner in the Ustad’s room. He flat out refused. It was unthinkable for him to sleep in comfort while his neighbors sweltered.
He was a man steeped in the old world charm of Varanasi, cycle rickshaws, long mornings spent by the Ganges and evening prayers at the mosque. He could be a private man of extreme tenderness and in another moment he would in an unbridled fit of rage throw microphones at his audience. The Ustad saw a divine unity in all religions. A devout Muslim, he worshipped Goddess Saraswati as well – a true symbol of India’s pluralism. Once, while in Iran to receive, another in a long list of civilian honours, he was questioned by religious clerics about the legitimacy of his music given that Islam considers music taboo. He’d then famously picked up his shehnai and wove a Raga of dazzling intricacy, and asked them all if that was haraam (sin)? And if indeed that was, his advice to the world was – “aur haraam karo, aur haraam karo.”
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, with a dismissive wave, one of the last interviews with Ustad Bismillah Khan was over. He cleared his throat and settled into another alaap. It was time for me to bid farewell to the Ustad and his shehnai that echoed unrivalled every morning through the decades, on my father’s old radio set.
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