' Bhimanna, You'll Never Abandon Us And Go Away'

There was a surprise waiting to ambush me in the crowded labyrinths created by book stalls put up for the annual Kannada literary jamboree in Bangalore recently. The elderly Ramakanth Joshi of Dharwad's Manohara Grantamala, a renowned publishing house in Karnataka, pulled me aside, took out a few folded sheets of paper from his cotton sling-bag, placed them in my hands and said: "You'll like this. I translated it into Kannada from the Marathi just yesterday."

Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked him what it was. He said it was an unpublished obituary written for Bhimasena Joshi, by his eldest son Raghavendra Bhimasena Joshi, born to his first wife Sunanda, who was little known compared to Vatsala, his second wife, with whom he had lived in Maharastra since their marriage in 1951. Both Sunanda and Vatsala had pre-deceased their legendary husband. Sunanda, who had also lived in Pune, had passed away in 1991 and Vatsala in 2005. I recalled Gangubai Hangal telling me in November 2008 that Sunanda was the woman who had stood solidly behind Bhimasena Joshi in his early and most trying years. Sunanda's marriage to the singer had taken place in 1943 and he had four children from her - Raghavendra, Usha, Sumangala and Ananda. Vatsala bore him three children - Jayanta, Shubhada and Srinivasa.

Ramakanth Joshi is a cousin of Bhimsen Joshi and his father, the Kannada playwright G B Joshi, had, in 1961, published a candid biographical essay of the singer by his father Gururaja Joshi. It has now been reprinted as a slim volume after the singer's death. So, when he gave me the obituary I instantly knew that there would be something special and intimate in it. I had read a gossip magazine describe Sunanda and her children as the 'abandoned family' of the singer. 'Gururaja Joshi had also married twice. This heightened my curiosity in the narrative on hand. But in the very first read it was clear that Raghavendra Joshi had written it with utmost restraint, respect and literary flourish. It had no taint of casualness or entrenched bitterness or accusation whatsoever, but a meditative intensity comparable only to the 'abhangs' of his singer-father. There was an old-worldly devotion to the figure of the father. It was also essentially a monologue of a reflecting son at a deeply painful bend of life. There were interesting and profound questions with a fleeting rapidity in his mind, but they were also mostly reconciled questions. They didn't beg an answer. Raghavendra Joshi must be past 60 himself. In short, there was only acceptance and no arrogance of a pardon, delivered by a son to a father who was there, but never really there.

Let me present some excerpts in my twice removed translation. In the beginning, he speaks about the physical state of his father in his final months:

"So, you have delivered yourself from the eternal pains of this physical existence!"

[For 'physical existence' he uses a wonderful compound 'deha-dharma.' It's quite difficult to catch its cultural depth in English. Also notice the ring created by the use of the word 'eternal' (anantha) for pain when it is actually being juxtaposed with the finite tenure of the body. This is the opening dramatic line of the obituary.]

"In the last few years I had not heard you sing with spontaneous ease [with 'sahaja']. To tell the truth singing was your other breath, but that had stopped long back. I was dumbfounded when I had seen you scream 'ayyayo, ayyayo' writhing in pain. I had heard you plead 'lay me to rest, lay me to rest.' You had also conceded that your body was not able to perform the intent of your mind."

Next, he revisits his father's childhood:

I had heard about your 'balakanda' from elders. Apparently, you would intently listen, get excited and dance to a Purandara Dasa bhajan that wafted through from the neighbour's home... the deafening applause you received when you played the role of Krishna in school... despite the twig of the tamarind tree being used liberally to deter you from singing, you didn't care, you went on singing Bhimanna."

He addresses his father as Bhimanna, which literally means an elder brother. This is not uncommon in this part of the world. For instance I called my father 'Annaiah,' which is an interesting combination of an elder brother and father.

Then begin the painful bits:

"You were on your first tour of America and when you heard your father had passed away, you shut yourself in a room and had cried aloud, Bhimanna."

[The name 'Bhimanna,' is used like a refrain at the end of each sentence in this paragraph creates a dramatic effect. It is actually like a conversation but has a greater degree of confrontation. The structure of the sentence is such that it would mean both a direct address and a third person pointer to what Bhimanna did during the course of his life].

"In your youth Sunanda had stood by you in every which way possible ['but why did you desert her' remains unasked] and you had yourself built the mandap for your wedding Bhimanna. You had such rapturous love for my mother that for her plaits that flowed till her knees you brought a basket full of flowers Bhimanna. You had rejoiced and danced when I and my sister Usha were born Bhimanna. And thereafter you had cheated [he doesn't use the word 'cheated', but uses the phrase 'to put a cap on,' 'toppi pehanaanaa,' 'topi haaki' a proverbial use familiar in many Indian languages] simple and gullible people to take a flight to Nagpur Bhimanna. However, Bhimanna, until we [your children] grew up, you ensured that we didn't fall by the wayside. You were a great artiste and when you thought you had wavered in your dedication to your art and your 'dharma,' you felt so frustrated that you tried to take your life twice Bhimanna."

He comes closer to the present:

"The last eight to ten days you were not in this world at all. I came to see you but my conversations were only with the doctor. About four to five years back, when an airlines company said that it would arrange a chartered flight for your travel you had declined and said 'there was only one airplane that you now wanted to board.' Since then, we had stopped expecting you. Tukaram's melody had started beckoning you and you responded to it by saying 'Pandarinatha Maharaj ki Jai'.

The final part of the narrative is about the final day and the final journey:

"The young and the old, the big and the small were trooping in to have your last glimpse. In your house [not 'our house'], under a soft glow you were laid to rest on a carpet like a setting sun. The disturbance and disorganisation around were not irking you anymore. People in hushed tones were discussing as to where to place the camera and who should be part of the frame. When the photo had to be taken, someone even suggested that the 'first family' should be 'ignored' as much as possible."

He does not slip away in these thoughts but regains control. Poignantly, he says:

"That final moment arrived. As the eldest son it became possible for me to come closer to you to perform the final rites. Amidst all the chaos I could still come close to you. You had enormous belief in tradition and it gave me solace that I could offer you my final respects as the eldest. After a point, the government people, pushed all the cameras back. I was the only one standing near you. I am not sure if someone took that picture"

"Next day, early in the morning, when we went to the crematorium and were collecting your ashes, I couldn't control my tears. I couldn't help falling unconscious. When we immersed the ashes in the Indrayani river, memories of immersing my mothers ashes came back to me intensely... Hey Bhimanna you'll never abandon us and go away!"

The last line echoes, doesn't it?

Edited to correct some details on Feb 23.