Ustad Bismillah Khan was the most simple, humble and divine artiste, says Dr Kavita Arya as she pens a memoir on his 104th birth anniversary
As an admirer and a resident of Ustad Bismillah Khan’s city, Varanasi, I enjoyed the privilege of visiting him at his residence several times. He was very affectionate to me and treated me as his granddaughter. Nai Sadak, Beniyabaagh that time was one of the dirtiest, narrow and poverty-stricken lanes of Varanasi. I would wonder how a legend like Khan had the humility to bloom in its deepest recesses. But Bismillah sa’ab himself described it as “Banaa” and “ras”, a place with the essence of delight. That’s why he has become a metaphor of the city itself.
The title of Bharat Ratna had not been conferred on him back then but he had already carved his place in my heart. I remembered the day I went to his house. Finally, we were in front of an unassuming door, which had a modest nameplate bearing his name. With nobody to guard, none to stop or ask any question, it was open and led straight to an inner verandah. The cemented floor was dotted with repaired patches here and there; the walls, too, had not been white-washed for a long time and wore an old look. A few family members were there, engaged casually in the daily core. Habituated to see unknown visitors, they gave us a cursory look and without asking any question a teen-aged girl pointed towards the staircase. Everything seemed so informal, natural and homely that we began feeling as if we were in our own home.
No one accompanied us but as indicated, we reached straight to the second floor room in which Ustad lived. The room and the adjacent terrace served as his usual place to meet visitors who often included national and international celebrities and dignitaries. The room, like the rest of the household, had nothing to boast of, without any pomp and show that one might expect in the house of a great artist. It had a tin shade without any false sealing and a simple table fan kept in one corner.
Surrounded by nearly a dozen people, he was sitting on a simple cot knitted with packthread. Talking to everyone with his characteristic affection, he saw us hesitating at the door and called us in. I looked around for a vacant chair; there was none. Without waiting or asking anyone, Ustadji himself went out and brought two plastic chairs. It is difficult for me to believe that the great old man of Indian music himself brought a chair for me, a college student. With the conversations going on in the room, I came to know that the visitors were family members of Daler Mehndi, the renowned singer. Baba, as I started calling him from that very day, did not know who Daler Mehndi was. That lack of curiosity was not unusual considering he did not worry about his self-image at all. That day, too, he was wearing a simple lungi and a multi-holed vest. His unconsciousness about appearances was no less remarkable than his music. Within seconds I was oblivious of the filth and stink outside and his great stature. But I can never forget the eternal gleam on his face and his blissful eyes. It seemed as if he survived only by the nectar and rhythm of music.
In later years of my life, I met a number of artists and well-known people but none was so simple, humble and heavenly. When I touched his feet, he blessed me with an affectionate smile, asking me which class I was studying in and if I could sing. I sang a film’s song, “Kabhi khwab mein ya khayaal mein...” He appreciated my immature singing and repeatedly blessed me with many words in such a way that visitors became curious about me. Baba said, “Everyone should sing. It is necessary. Keep singing, whether you are cooking or washing clothes or taking a stroll, just keep singing.” He loved cold drinks and offered it to everyone. When he got Bharat Ratna, people suggested he should buy a ceiling fan and give a facelift to his house. His reply was again characteristic, “Has the Bharat Ratna changed the colour of my blood or has it changed my face?” He could have asked anyone to improve his lane; the authorities would have done so without making any fuss but the thought of seeking any such favour never crossed his mind.
I used to visit him every now and then but couldn’t go for a long time when I was busy with my research work. Later I went to seek his blessings after my marriage to Rishi. Baba blessed me profusely and complained in the same breath, “Your husband? Blessings to both of you. Where were you all these years? Don’t you think you should see your Baba? As atonement, you will have to cook my meal today.” And then he jokingly added, “Don’t be afraid, my granddaughters will help you... And you gentleman, you have got the best of them as your life partner. She is a gem. She sings so well. You also sing?” Rishi, a regular singer, sang two songs but Baba was not impressed and said: “No, not up to mark. You have to put your soul into it. Then only the sur shall arrive some day. It has visited me just twice or thrice in my whole life, the rest that I play is just a feeble remembrance of those rare moments.”
While talking or listening to someone, Baba would suddenly start punctuating the song with his immortal voice. Those sporadic punctuations formed the most precious and memorable moments for the gathering. Coming out of his lane, I asked Rishi, “You have always been a better singer than me but why could you not give your best today?” He replied, “Ignorance is bliss. You are ignorant of his stature; to you, he is simply your Baba. I know how great he is. It was the consciousness of his greatness that kept hovering upon me as long as I was sitting in his presence.”
But Baba himself was never conscious of his own presence. It was only the music that mattered. In his own words, it was ibaadat. I find no parallel for this word in any other language. Any place where he could sit and sing was ibaadat for him . Often, it used to be the Hanuman temple at Manikarnika Ghat. Baba had a great reverence for Kashi Vishwanath and swore in typical Banarasi Boli when terrorists attacked the Sankat Mochan. He used to say, those who spread hate are neither Muslim nor Hindu.
Sometimes I miss him and want to ask, “Baba, don’t you think you should come and see your granddaughter?” But then I wonder, had he been alive, how much pained he might have felt in the atmosphere prevailing today.
(The writer is an assistant professor, department of English, MGK Vidyapith, Varanasi.)
