The Eternal Song Of Gangubai

THE riyaz may have stopped, but not the song. Gangubai Hangal, khayal's leading exponent and doyenne of the Kirana gharana, doesn't live her age—she turned 87 recently. God bless her. If she dithered, but for a moment, when we asked her if she'd accompany us to Lake Hunkal—her hometown Hubli's prettiest spot—it's because she's terribly camera-shy. "Ye sab hamne kabhi nahin kiya, kabhi pose nahin kiya (I've never done this, never struck a pose)," she confesses in broken Hindi. And yet, on the shores of Hunkal, as she settles under a tree to play the tanpura and sing the first few notes of the alaap, she's lost to the world. Her voice does the talking—rich, deep, mellifluous. Till the security guard, overwhelmed by the moment, can't stop himself. "Akka," he gushes, "I have all your tapes, I've heard all your music. But I never dreamt I'd see you in person. Thank you, thank you."

"This is why I've settled down in Hubli, not in Bombay," says Gangubai, sitting in her home, aptly called Gangu Lehari. "The people here love me." Only partially true, that. For Gangubai has rasiks all over the country. One such is Delhi-based music aficionado Prem Shankar Jha. "She has a voice like a tigress," he exults. "So much passion. Her range has reduced somewhat with age but she still retains that special rare quality that draws you like nothing else does."

Ask Gangubai what a day in her life's like and she's almost apologetic. "I do nothing. I can't do riyaz anymore. Earlier I used to practice 6-8 hours." Her son begs to differ: "She does everything. Goes to every music session in Hubli, travels to Bombay or Bangalore, wherever she's invited. Why, she even lent her support to the ongoing lawyers' agitation by joining them on the dais the first day." Last year she was in Paris and Belgium for a series of concerts, one at a Paris church without a mike. Then she was in Delhi to accept an honorary doctorate—"They even gave me the cape as a present." On April 23, she'll be in Bombay—where her public performances began in the '30s, thanks to Jaddan Bai, Nargis' mother—to be felicitated by Banyan Tree, an organisation promoting Indian performing arts. There, among other things, she'll sing snatches from her first stage performance. And as always, daughter Krishna, an artiste in her own right and the only one in the family to pick up her mother's gayaki, will accompany her on the vocals.

To understand her worldview, one has to delve into her past. Born into a family of devadasis (professional courtesan-musicians), she inherited the talent—and the stigma. She remembers how as a six-year-old her neighbours reprimanded her, not for stealing mangoes but because she, a singer's daughter, had dared to enter the premises. Today, of, course, they're reverential. Her mother Ambabai was a Carnatic musician; so was grandmother Kamalabai. But Gangubai took to Hindustani classical—Karnataka's Hubli-Dharwad is close to Maharashtra, hence its culture—"Radio me sun kar mujhe bahut achcha laga (I liked it when I heard it on radio)." And of course, Karnataka's contribution to the Hindustani classical stable is legendary—Sawai Gandharva, Panchakshari Gawai, Mallikarjun Mansur, Basavaraj Rajguru, Kumar Gandharva, Bhimsen Joshi...

In fact, Bhimsen Joshi and Gangubai shared a guru—Sawai Gand-harva. "Bhim anna used to live in guruji's house at Kundgol (about 30 km from Hubli). I used to go there everyday by train. And do riyaz for hours at a stretch, perfect the taans and paltas. In '37." But her first guru was her mother, who, she says, gave up singing so that her Carnatic music wouldn't distract Gangubai. If there's one thing she wishes turned out different in her life, it's that her mother didn't live to see her success. The music concerts, the string of LPs, the mix-up in names notwithstanding. Some labels mentioned her birthname Gandhari, others called her Gandhari Hub-likar (perhaps thinking Hangal as too small a place).

Back then, recording meant a 15-day stay in Bombay. Gangubai recalls how HMV would rent a house, cook and all. It was a long process—wax records had to be made and dried before a song could be recorded. Once, she reminisces, she had decided to take the evening train to Hubli after a particularly long session when she found a man from HMV waiting for her at the station. The records had broken, he told her, and the recording had to be done all over again.

Gangubai also has a great tale to tell about how her voice turned 'masculine'. "Before the '50s, I had a soft voice. Then I had tonsilitis. I used to be in great pain. A doctor treated me for it with electric shocks. The pain went, but my voice changed. I didn't mind it at all." Nor do her listeners. Though their admiration is not unalloyed. Says Jha: "Different people are special for different things. Gangubai is about raw emotion, soul, power rather than subtlety, complexity. She struck you for different things."

But then hers has been a life lived differently. In true deva-dasi tradition, she settled down with her yajman Gururao Kaulgi—"I was afraid a civil marriage would destroy my family." He was a lawyer, but didn't practice; his business ventures flopped. There was much hardship. "I couldn't bear his unhappiness." And it reflected on her music. She'd break down while practising—"It was as if there was a cloud around me." Not for long. As she made her name—she says the record companies helped a lot—her life fell into place.

NOW, she's wistful that none in her extended family shares her love for Hindustani classical. "My grandson Manoj is an advocate. When he went to court the first day, he was asked why he'd studied law, not music. Manoj came home and asked me. 'It's because I didn't teach you'." Granddaughter Anita has studied music, but is scared to open her mouth in front of Gangubai—"She's a genius. I can't sing when she's there. So I'm learning from Krishna."

Gangubai's essence is that she's adhered to the stylistic purity of her school. And like Hirabai Barodekar and Rosh-ana Begum of the same gharana, has preserved the khayal idiom. Among her favourite ragas are Bhairavi, Kalavati, Darbari, Sandhya Kalyan, Multani. In her glittering career, she's shared the stage with all the greats—M.S. Subbalak-shmi, Amjad Ali Khan, Pt Jasraj... She remembers the jalsa she attended in Calcutta where Ravi Shankar was also playing. "Things were different then," says she, "we didn't walk away when our performance was over, but waited to hear others. Ravi Shankar looked at me and said: 'Gangubai, you may not like this music. I'm playing it for the audience'."

She's also a stickler for the guru-shishya parampara. "I don't have many shishyas, three or four, but I believe in the gurukul tradition. Today there are books, tapes, but there's no substitute for a guru." Such is her humility that ask her to sing a khayal, and she turns to her shishya Poornima Ramacharya. And under the genial gaze of her mentor who keeps taal, Poornima renders a khayal in Raga Multani—Aaj bajat badhayi barasane main to/sun kar aali apane kanha.

From the Padma Bhushan in '71 to the Sangeet Natak Akademi awards, accolades have come easy to Gangubai. Ask her if classical music has a future in India, and she emphasises there's plenty of talent. "The young people must do sadhana, not hanker after fame. That'll come, slowly." She can talk, because in a musical career spanning seven decades, she never sought riches. In the '30s, she was paid Rs 40 for a concert in Hubli, Rs 125 or so in Bombay, Rs 75 for a radio programme—"enough for my survival." And that's still her credo. "I sing to survive, I want nothing more." True. Younger vocalists charge Rs 50,000-Rs 2 lakh for concerts, Gangubai remains steadfastly pegged at Rs 25,000 firmly believing that to profit from music is to prostitute it. With a twinkle in her eye, she recalls what her great granddaughter Suhasini, barely five, tells her. "When I sing, I'll also earn a lot of money. But I won't sing like you, I'll sing 'chaiyya, chaiyya'." So, has she heard it? "No. I never listen to filmi music."

At 87, she's happy in her humble abode, surrounded by her family. "I'm happy you all took me to Hunkal. I've passed it by several times, but I never went in. It's so peaceful." In a life riddled with contradictions, Gangubai has found her peace.