Every time Panditji sings, it’s another day in paradise

As an assistant in a music studio and teacher, Triveni Rangarajan, got several chances to interact with the legendary Bhimsen Joshi, who recently won the Bharat Ratna. But what touched her the most was the master’s humility

Pandit Bhimsen Joshi stands tall in the world of Indian classical music. A voice that comes from somewhere deep within fills the auditorium or the pandal and enters the hearts of listeners, even if you are not the discerning kind.

A legend, a cult figure and above all a man of great humility. As a teen, I worked as an assistant with a reputed music teacher in Pune in the late 1980s. The place was among the few equipped with a studio and voice recording facilities. One cold December evening, a silver-haired, tall man walked in to check the recording facilities. He was back an hour later with a familiar looking person. From the introductions, I gathered it was Panditji. The trio got down to recording. The studio had no bharatiya baithak facility, and the floor was cold, yet, an unfazed Panditji simply spread his shawl, sat down and began to record. No tantrums, no fuss.

When he was leaving, I thrust a small booklet seeking his autograph. He signed it, closed it and gave it back.  “Ulti sahi keli, chalel na?” (I’ve signed it upside down, will that do?),” he asked. Such was his humility that it left a lasting impression.

I moved on to teach at a residential school in Panchgani and one August evening, the principal asked all the students and staff to assemble in the hall for an Indian classical music evening. On stage was Panditji. He said he had promised the school’s founder a performance and was there to keep it.

He sang, we listened and let his sonorous voice fill up our senses. The students, of course, were fidgety. After he finished his session, a collective request for an abhang (a form of devotional poetry) went up from the 150-odd teaching staff, their spouses and helpers. Panditji obliged.

The moment he sang Teertha Vitthala, Kshetra Vitthala, the entire gathering, including the restive students, fell silent. Panditji’s voice and the abhang lifted our souls collectively and brought us close to a divine experience.        

A few years later, back in Pune, I switched professions. I was now a journalist and among my first assignments was a chance to cover the Sawai Gandharva Sangeet Mahotsav, Pune’s annual music festival held every December. Back then, the three-day festival would begin at 8pm and continue till the following day morning. Artistes were invited from across the country and they all come for the love of Panditji and to perform before an appreciative crowd.

Panditji, who began the festival in the memory of his guru Sawai Gandharva, is usually present on all three nights. That year too he was there.

He usually ends the festival with a performance. But he had been keeping unwell and nobody knew if he was up to it that year. Expectations ran high. At 7am, it was announced that he would perform and a collective sigh went up. Word spread quickly and within 15 minutes the huge shamiana at New English School, Ramanbaug, filled with hundreds of office-goers, home makers, autorickshawalas, pony-tailed teens, senior citizens and even a group of conservancy staff. Panditji entered and took his place on the stage. Again, as soon as he sang, ripples went through the crowd. Many went into a trance, swaying with every note, others sat transfixed while a huge number wept openly. Again came, the request for an abhang which the master sang.

As the festival ended, the crowd trooped out with two words on their lips  — Panditji gaayale (Panditji sang). Bharat Ratna, you deserve Panditji.

r_triveni@dnaindia.net