Bhairavi

(When I wrote this story last year of course I had Kishori tai Amonkar in mind. I am saddened by her passing away. A heavenly voice has gone back to where it came from. But as it says in this story "Music is light; it will always be there passing from one day to other", her music will keep shining as bright as ever. My humblest tribute to a true artist)

Bhairavi

The concert was to begin at eight in the evening.  Almost fifteen hours still ahead of it. But the actual ceremony was supposed to start at seven. There would be the introductory speeches about the foundation with its purpose and objectives, the organizers behind it and the main sponsors. Then it would be time to introduce her, thanking her for agreeing to do the benefit concert, requesting her to come on stage and begin the concert. As usual there will always be the need to test the audio set up, adjust the levels to her appeasement, before she can even start with the first note.

These days she usually kept away from big organizers, giving them some pretense or other or quoting some ridiculous amount of money. Some still agreed to pay those amounts and she did those concerts, donating most of the money to either some charitable causes she believed in or good music schools or even sponsoring some of her own students, who couldn’t afford to pay her tuition. She missed those concerts from the old days in some dilapidated, poorly lit music halls or at the homes of few music lovers, some rich with palatial homes while others with an old house in a village or a small apartment in a city. There were no huge concert halls and grand stages then, with beautiful backdrops, colorful lighting, artful flower arrangements and other decorations adorning the stage, even some VIP audience members sitting in the front on luxurious sofas. Those were the days when such music was heard by only those who truly understood, appreciated and loved it. Nowadays, attending these big classical concerts, had become a fashion, a prestige thing to be seen in a grand music concert; in the same lines they have operas in the western world. There was little respect for the art itself or the artist. But she knew that she could not generalize everything and everyone, there were many who still appreciated good classical music and who regarded her as the ultimate musical Goddess, divine with her gifts.

The organizers of this event were someone she knew and had heard about. They were mostly social workers who intended to start an orphanage-cum-school for the surviving kids of the big earthquake which had recently happened in a rural area. Thousands of people, mostly poor from village, had lost their lives and livelihoods with nowhere else to go. Government help, if and when it reached, took its own long time; it was the NGOs and other social organizations that quickly provided help. The least she could do to help them was by raising money through her concert. 

She had told the organizers that she won’t be in the audience or backstage for the initial ceremony. She will reach early at hall, by six or little later. All she wanted was a quiet room where she could tune the string instrument she herself played while singing. It took a long time to make the adjustments, each string adjusted to the perfect tension to create the absolute right sound frequencies, so that when she plucked them with her long and slender fingers, the harmonics they produced invoked the right atmosphere, the just mood she wanted to create that evening for her audience and herself. Yes, herself, because she considered herself as the primary audience and the critic. Those who sat in front of her may be the most ignorant or the most knowledgeable expert of music. They could sing her praises or criticize her music in every possible way. But only she knew what she had intended to create at a particular concert, on any particular day and time, and only she could judge whether she was successful in her endeavor. And for that she needed some time of solitude to take everything else away from her mind so she could focus solely on one and only one thing, her music. And today she could imagine it to be an uphill task.

She sat up, washed her face, did the daily breathing exercises and meditation and drank a glass of warm water with a spoonful of honey. Then she went to the music room, a specially made room when they had built this home, as much sound proof as possible so as not to disturb other people in the house who may be sleeping, studying, working or could be sick. It was here that she taught her students daily, a minimum of ten to twelve hours and maximum of twenty four. Twenty four hours, because there were a handful of students who actually stayed in the house, just as it was way back in her mother’s days or far earlier when a school was not something that you attended, rather somewhere you stayed. These were students who were ahead of others in terms of the time they were under her tutelage or in their grit, grasp of music and the promise of how much they could understand, learn and do with music.  

She liked to come here early morning on the day of her concerts and sing what she had planned to sing for that day. Rehearse would be the word to use but it wasn’t the right one. Because classical Indian music was nothing you can plan ahead, song to song, note to note. You can make the general outline of what to sing, depending on the time of the concert or the season. Morning, afternoon, evening, night, spring, monsoon, all had its own sounds, its own rhythm. After all music was part of nature. But coming to the point, it was really all in the improvisation of the main artist. He or she was the one who decided when it was time to introduce the next note for exposition, what would be the next musical phrase, which vocal register it will hit. The accompanists, one for melody and other for percussion, simply followed the cues, only occasionally showing their artistry when the main artist graciously allowed them to. The spotlight was on the main artist, they were the ones who could make or break the concert, and it was their names the record labels made sales profits on. The difference between a mediocre artist and an accomplished artist was in the improvisation because practically everyone sang the same traditional compositions. They weren’t compositions written down; there was no music sheet that one can read and sing out. It was years of practice under a proper Guru, a teacher who taught you rigorously anytime of the day or night and it was up to you to soak in everything and go beyond, bringing in your own mastery of the art, your own style, and  own emotions. It was as much a display of your intellect as it was of your physical skills.

She stood in front of the worshiping place set up in the corner. A miniature temple like structure made of wood with silver and brass idols and photo frames of various Gods. And a photo of her Mother who was her Guru, her music teacher, her source of inspiration. She folded her hands, closed her eyes and bowing her head, stood for a while invoking a few chants. Then she sat with her tanpura, a drone instrument, and began. The notes started flowing, slow and steady at first because you need to give them time just as if you would let a horse trot for a while before galloping at full pace. But it all seemed lifeless to her. There was nothing wrong, years of learning and practice had brought her to such a point that making a mistake was harder than not doing one. She just felt it did not have the right feel and the emotions, the sublime quality to touch ones heart that she sought in her music. And that was a failure.

The slight tinge of worry about the concert, which she had felt in the morning before getting up, now seemed to grow on her. Soon it would be time for the daily grind, her students will start arriving, and she will have to start the lessons. She hated to give them a day off, just because she had to prepare for the concert. They came to seek what only she could give them and it was her duty to fulfill it. A duty, not just towards her students but a promise made to her mother.

She remembered herself as her mother’s student. Barely in her teens at the time, she was largely rebellious in those early days, wanting to uplift themselves beyond the meagre conditions they were forced to live in. Her mother herself had gone against the norm, seeking her devotion and passion for music when women were expected to stay indoors, not even go out for education let alone indulge themselves in music or dance or other such fancies. It was a something that gypsy folks or women with lose characters did. In spite of all that, women like her mother had started fanning out in various areas, educating themselves, lending their voice to social and political issues and creating ripples in art circles. All of that had brought respectability but nothing more. Her mother taught a few students, got invites to some small concerts, but they had to live in poverty. Her father had died when she was a toddler, without much to spare, so her mother and herself were left fending for themselves. She wanted to have none of it, setting her goals on having a good education and a proper job. The music stifled her, she wanted to get away from it and expand her universe, finding her own path.

Later her attraction to her mother’s music was as much a surprise as it was natural. She had grown listening to it, it was in the house everywhere, and she even accompanied her mother to the concerts, sometimes falling asleep right on the stage where her mother was performing, the voice ringing in her ears and in her dreams. Her mother was a strict teacher, making her practice until she got everything right, no matter how long it took. There were never any undue words of praise, despite knowing that she was cultivating a genius. She knew times were changing, her daughter would be able to use her art to achieve things she was not able to achieve, but she feared giving false hopes. Seek music to please the soul and get relief from all sufferings, was her advice.

The students started arriving one by one. There was informality to the education, nothing set, and everything depending on each student’s ability to learn. They were eager, polite, in awe of her, even wary of not knowing when she may scold them for not paying enough attention or not getting something right. Most of them would probably stop or move away, focusing on their careers and families, music taking the backseat for an occasional attendance at a concert or listening to recordings. Only a few would make it a lifelong passion. And fewer still will achieve what she had achieved. The world of art is selective in how many Mozart or Picasso it creates. But that was not in her hand. Her duty was to teach them, impart whatever knowledge she had gained all her life, to others, in the hope that it will continue to live forever.

As her mother’s daughter she had tried to remain true to her advice. Life had treated her well, bringing not just fame and everything else with it, but a loving and understanding family with a great husband and three grown up children, even grand-kids. Any blocks she might have in her way, she herself took away in the beginning and then they themselves shied away from her path. Awards, accolades, riches, fans scattered across the world and charitable trusts carrying her name, gratified of her generous donations. Everything was won but still, as she grew older, there was a growing uneasiness in her heart. Was it the fact that her children had taken to other professions, acknowledging her talent, admiring her but not wanting to follow in her footsteps? Was it her own mortality that was worrying her?

The day stretched as one after one the students came and left. Lunch was a very short affair as she preferred to keep it extremely light and simple on concert days. Anyway the physical demands of our bodies are much reduced as you reach old age. It was the brain which mattered, the fear of losing what you have been learning and storing in it for years was much greater than losing some physical ability. The power and vigor of her voice, the ease and flexibility with which it could move through octaves could weaken and soften, but one could at least take solace in the fact that you can create that magic in your mind. What if you lose that ability?

After the last student had left in the late afternoon she went to lie down and rest for a while as these concerts could stretch well into the night. It all depended on how much you are up to it and how the audience reacts to your singing.  In the olden days concerts used to last until the wee hours of dawn, as you went on building that relationship with the listeners, ultimately becoming one with them, the same way one reaches the non-dual state of oneness with God, the Almighty, the Universal Soul whatever you believe in. And then it was time to sing Bhairavi, the melody which incorporated the entire essence of music, all the twelve notes, and the finale with which every classical concert came to an end.

“Sing a Bhairavi for me, I feel it’s time for it now” her mother had insisted one day as she lay weakened onto her bed, well into her old age and final days. Despite knowing what was coming she feared losing her mother, her teacher, her strength giver.

“Please don’t say that, there is still lot of time, it’s too early for Bhairavi” she cried.

“It is never too early or late for Bhairavi. See it this way; is the dawn the end of previous day or the beginning of a new day? Bhairavi is just like that. I gave my music to you as there wasn’t much else I could give. As long as you keep that music alive, I will remain with you. Make sure you do the same. We are mere mortals, just a flame which will extinguish some time. But music is light; it will always be there, passing from one day to other”

She woke to the sound of someone at the door. Her two senior most students were at the door, fussing about thinking how to wake her up as it was time to get ready for the concert. They were to accompany her onstage, a privilege they had earned by years of learning and acquiring most of what she had taught them. If not for their desire to continue the learning, they could have gone and started their own performing careers. It was time she set them free so they could independently create their own identities, their own magical gift to deliver to the world.

As they were being driven to the concert hall she told them both “I want you to give full support to me today. You are ready, so don’t be shy, don’t wait for my cues, and don’t worry about stepping ahead of me if you feel like it. I have seen what you have achieved; now it’s time for you to show it to the world “ She could see the wonder on their faces, same as it must have been when her mother had recommended the junior daughter’s name to an organizer who had come to seek the senior mother’s performance. He had hesitated first glancing at the young face but had ultimately agreed and must have congratulated himself a hundred times, as the audience wholeheartedly accepted her. She hadn’t looked back since then. Seeing a similar sense of awe and smiles on their faces now, lightened her heart.

At the hall the arrangements were as expected and she was able to tune her instruments in a room provided to her, in complete peace without any disturbance. As the speeches winded down and they called her on stage after the introductions, she came and took position onstage. The two accompanists sat with their instruments by her side and the two students also on either side, but slightly behind her. She made a point to thank the audience, introduce others accompanying her and invoked blessings of the almighty before strumming the strings with her fingers and beginning to sing the starting notes. She had a hardly begun and got into the introductory alap when to her surprise and delight, two confident, full-throated voices from either side blended in with hers, becoming one with her voice. The walls of concert hall reverberated simultaneously with the powerful melody arising from those voices and the applause from the audience kept echoing through the night until it was almost time for first light. 

Suresh Nair

6/20/2016