Much prior to developing any admiration for Balakrushna Dash, the singer or the composer, I, first at the age of twelve years and then sixteen, had to some extent gauged the immensity of his grip, rather his voice’s grip, over Odia people. I and many more like me, were already under the heavy toxicity of his songs seemingly coming out from a hume pipe.
Those days, in our village and all nearby villages, limited numbers of transistor sets were the only source of listening to songs, be it Odia or Hindi. The more enlightened were all praise for Ceylon, its popularity largely depended on Amin Sayani’s Binaca Geetmala and other song-based programmes, the less enlightened followed Bibidh Bharati and the least enlightened depended on AIR, Cuttack’s limited programmes.
It was natural that Dash was always on AIR, either as a singer or as a composer. Almost all Odia films had his signature compositions though there were extraordinarily versatile Bhubaneswar Mishra and Upendra Kumar. Those days media presence was very limited and they seldom cared for creative people.
Hence, people did not have scope to know the background of their idols, be it Balakrushna Dash or Gopal Kanungo or Gopinath Mohanty or Bimbadhar Burma or, for that matter, let’s say people knew little about the backgrounds of Ministers, film artists and some legendary academicians. This was the reason for run-of-the mill rumours. To cut a long stony short, Balakrushna Dash had already become a legend through innumerable Odissi songs, chhandas, bhajans, jananas and folk songs. He endeared himself to the masses by singing some most popular folk songs with slight clever changes in the already-existing heart-touching Odia tunes used in palas and daskathias and in some other festivals observed in different parts of Odisha. When I was a boy of twelve, I knew nothing about the man except some of his popular songs. It was the annual function of a nearby high school. The chief guest was a Minister, and there were other guests. However, the centre of all attraction that evening was Balakrushna Dash. looking back, I wonder who had invited him and why. Maybe, after speaking a few words, he’d sing; maybe, he was just a gemstone glittering among otherwise shine-less stones on the stage. I recall that there were many women in the audience, rural women, who had nothing to do with the function; they were there because Dash was there. Those married among them did have the fond memory of their own marriages when the gramophone played his sweet, breezy songs throughout the day. Now, they had a unique opportunity to see the man in flesh and blood. It was something akin to the girls getting novels like Amada Bata, Kaa or Badhu Nirupama as presentation in their marriages. The meeting continued for one and a half hours. Dash did not speak a word. Yet, after another a few minutes, the stage was set for him. There were two others, one being a music teacher in the local music school. The teacher had a good voice and he began Aaja E Ki Gumaana re, chandranana ……” . I recall that the audience appreciated his rendition because the clapping continued for a full minute.
After two more songs by other artists, it was Dash’s turn. He rose and went straight to the microphone. He spoke a few words focusing solely on music and Odissi singing. I did not make out anything, except what he said about the first singer, the local music teacher. His words, even after more than 35 years, reverberate in my memory. His emphasis was on the word Gumaans; why the singer separated “Gu” from “Maana reIJ The music teacher had repeated the first line as Aaja E’ki Gooo-ooo –maana re ……” Balakrushna’s contention was that the poet must have been very much aware of the use of Gumaana, the necessity of a three-letter word there; otherwise the poet would surely have used two words, a one-letter word and a two-letter word. Hence, the singer should have all respect for the poet and sing Gumaana as a single word, with a single-syllable-like pronunciation!
But why this particular part of his address is still alive in memoryIJ Because finally Dash had questioned the audience, “What’s meant by GooooIJ Does it mean ghua (excreta) in OdiaIJ’ A huge roar of laughter had greeted him. I am sure he would have admonished may others at different places for the same reason!
The second incident was a passive one involving Dash for it involved a humble person of my village, Mathurananda lenka, who had a small cycle repairing shop in the nearby Nischintakoili Bazaar. Mathurananda, popularly called Mathuri, had a family of six. He was a landless man having a small two-room thatched house. To supplement his income, he had a loudspeaker set with more than 500 records. The gramophone was like a son who earned money during the festive seasons.
There were two others, who did the same business, but Mathuri was more popular for two reasons; he was humble and he had a tremendous collection of records, Hindi and Odia. Almost all well-known songs composed by SD Burman, Salil Chowdhury, Naushad, Hemant Kumar, Shankar-Jaikishan, Roshan, RD Burman, Kalyanji-Anandji and some others were safely stacked in his large wooden box. So also were all Odia film songs. He also had a huge collection of non-film songs. All songs sung by Balakrushna Dash, Nimai Harichandan, Raghunath Panigrahi, Akshay Mohanty, Rakhal Mohanty, Sikandar Alam, Nirmala Mishra, Prafulla Kar were with him. We would watch him sitting on his small verandah and cleansing the records. It was evident that he was madly in love with all of them, the machine, the records, the pin, the small and the large box!
Then one day, he was informed by doctors that his wife, otherwise a healthy-looking woman, was suffering from brain tumour.
Mathuri was sort of an introvert; he did not go on telling about his plight to all and sundry but to a select few who helped him. Yet, help was never enough; he began selling his belongings one by one; his cycle, his small radio, his cows, goats, then his records to a man perhaps from Kendrapada, another one from Cuttack, then the gramophone. The day he sold the machine, he cried like a child.
All his records were gone; only those containing the voice of Balakrushna Dash remained. Then, he sold the box. Meanwhile, his wife’s health had deteriorated beyond recovery; she died within a few days. Prior to that, many offered Mathuri big amounts for the remaining records, but he declined all offers. He said his wife’s death was certain; he would not part with the records of Balakrushna Dash!
Mathuri lived much longer, but his business was gone. Nor could he listen to his favourite songs because the machine was gone. Yet he kept the records, cleansed them regularly. I do not know what finally happened to the records. His son was two years my junior; I am not sure what he did to them. He took care of the cycle-repair shop.
Mathuri was not aware of what Balakrushna Dash really was. Mathuri might not have known that Dash would have, like Hemant Kumar, become a popular composer and singer in Bombay. But Mathuri knew one thing, that Balakrushna’s songs had a rare healing touch that could put all sorrow aside, even his wife’s death, even if the records remained in the box!
(The author is a short storywriter and works as Public Relations Officer to the Governor, Odisha)
