But now there is a tranquility to his singing and as he nears 80, Pandit Joshi is at peace with himself and the rest of the world: a world of fusion music, Indipop, suggestive lyrics and the victory of sheer sound over rhythm. Which is why Sony Nad'sSwaradhiraj, the four-volume collection of rare ragas for morning, noon, evening and night listening, comes as, well, music to the ears. It is a very rare selection - and collection - of ragas that have never before figured in his public repertoire. Begged and borrowed from friends and fans at whose homes and events he had performed privately, purely for their pleasure.
Bhimsen Joshi is normally very reticent and laconic. Rather monosyllabic, in fact. Outlook is told that it is very difficult to get him to say very much on himself or his music. But today, he is very loquacious. Reminiscent and nostalgic of the past, critical of the present and hopeful of the future. Unlike other noted classicists of our time who morally and verbally demolish others indulging in some commercially-viable fusion music, Joshi is not unduly worried by what passes off as music in the 21st century and seems ripe for a takeover of public - and classical - taste. "Old is gold," he says. Indian classical that compelled him to end with the todi at 3 am rather than the multani he had planned to wrap up the evening with around midnight. That was at the home of a largely Punjabi crowd. "Todi falls better on their ears in the wee hours and you must give the people what they wish to hear. Note this: music is music only if the singer and the listener get equal pleasure from the notes."
But this pleasure needs to be more cerebral than physical. And that is what makes Joshi and his six decades of singing so different. His Bahar evokes the spring, his Megh Malhars bring to mind the rain clouds. His one regret is that some of his best singing in the early years might have been lost to posterity, for there is no known evidence of recording. From the days of the British who would accord one hour a day to Indian fare on what was then the predecessor of the All India Radio to the early days of independence: there are no records. But of what there is, there's a richness of repertoire that only Bhimsen Joshi can summon.
He will not list his favourite ragas, though. "Every gharana has 15-20 people who have their favourite ragas," he dissembles. Nor will he pick the favourites among his students today, one of them his son Srinivas who he will not allow to perform publicly yet because his father believes he is not ready yet. But his refusal to pick his favourite among his three disciples is not because his son is among them. He has an insight into this peril: choosing a favourite among his shishyas will only turn him complacent. Ask him about other gharanas and the students of other gurus and he might comply. A guru has to be always demanding and he is as demanding on his students as he is on himself.
Frail and recuperating from recent surgery though he may be, Bhimsen Joshi's voice has lost none of its timbre and resonance. Nor the boom and tenor that makes one feel he could summon the gods themselves. How does he do it? He describes it as gayak chi vaishishtha (a singer's repertoire). But then, he adds, he gets a lot of practice. "One sings for three to four hours continuously before one goes before the public. And even while travelling there one keeps singing in his head, the music keeps resonating."
The world can only say: thank you for the music -- and the songs you are singing. To yourself and to us.
