There’s something quite incomparableabout an Indian Classical concert when it goes right. There are so many of themnow, and there are so many things that can and do go wrong that this writer, atleast, almost shed tears of joy listening to Girija Devi accompanied by KishanMaharaj on the tabla.
Not being a learned critic of Hindustani Classical I will keep my comments tothe nature of the performance. Here was an old lady, looking for all the worldlike anybody’s mausi or nani, and here, next to her was an old gent withbeautiful long hair wisping out from behind a bald pate. Around them were muchyounger accompanists—sarangi, harmonium, two young women on the tanpuraechelon who took up the singing when the Guru signalled to them. It was cold andthe old lady had a slight sore throat. The old gent, 82 years old to be precisehad apparently been told firmly by his doctors to stop playing in concerts.Result: sheer magic.
During the whole gig, Girija Devi opened up the flower of her being, but she didit in the most down-to-earth, no-nonsense, humourous way. Great intensity waslaced with deep mischief and simmering merriment; desire, and flirtation,longing and loss each came alive separately and yet completely interwoven witheach other, the acts and emotions raised to some freaky level by incredible,easy mastery. What was frightening was the fact that there was no let up ineither rigour and seriousness but neither was there any obfuscation of the chiefreason we listen to live music; the exchange of joy between performer andlistener.
Towards the end of the evening, Girija-ji referred to herself as yeh buddhi andto Kishan Maharaj as her even older guru-bhai. Though she was grinning when shesaid it, she made the point very gently: that there were still a few things inwhich being young wasn’t of such importance. I don’t think she intended forher words to make anyone sad, but they almost did.
"Make sure you catch her," someone had said, " you never know how longshe’s going to be around, she’s quite old now." During the concert oneimage constructed itself before me: a girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, wearing asweatshirt and calf-length pants, going down on one knee right in front of thestage; she raised her mobile phone as if in prayer or salute and grabbed a fewstills of the great woman. Walking out, I thought "Old? If this is old, I wantit!" So, I’m guessing, did the teenager.
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This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, December 15,2005
