Gangubai Hangal

Gangubai Hangal

Make a staff of my body
Make a pumpkin of my head
Draw out the strings with my vocal cords
and bridges with my fingers.
Sing the 32 core ragas
Hold me to your chest and play on
Oh Lord of the Kudalasangam!
-- Basaveshwarayya

I think only the words of the Kannada Bhakti poet, Basaveshwarayya, can best describe the dedication and sadhana of the gaantapaswini, Moghubai Kurdikar. Her passing away has left a deep void in the world of Hindustani music.

I have always enjoyed a special relationship with both Moghubai and her daughter (classical singer Kishori Amonkar). I first met Moghubai in 1962. We were drawn to each other since both of us were aware of the immense struggle we had to go through in the face of poverty to keep our music alive. Like me, she had a rural upbringing (Moghubai was born in a small hamlet, Kurdi, in Goa on July 15, 1904).

We often laughed about how names like ours -- which only seem to belong to maidservants these days -- have endured on in today's times. "Tu majhya sarkhi, balbodh ni bholi (You are like me, childlike and innocent)," she would say.

Moga means 'loved one' in Konkani. It was not uncommon in most homes for children to be addressed in this fashion. In Kannada, too, we say maga (dear little child) out of affection.The nickname stuck and went on to become Moghubai as she grew older. Of course, no one knew then that she would go on to become such a legend of the Jaipur gharana.

In 1962, she was already a big name while I had barely begun. If my memory does not fail me, it was Pandit D V Paluskar who introduced us and, I remember, I was tongue-tied. What can you say to someone who had earned the respect of everyone in the music world?

When everybody went for lunch, I hesitated. I did not know what to do. They all knew each other. Would it look odd for me to eat with them? I stood in a corner with the pallu of my saree in my mouth. Then, I felt an affectionate hand on my shoulder. Moghubai's motherly voice said, "Chal ga. Khaun ge don ghaas (Come and eat with me)."

I was touched by her lack of pride. The fact that I came from another gharana (Gangubai Hangal is the leading light of the Kirana gharana) had not stopped her from being kind to me. Realising my discomfort about the city, she asked if I would like to stay with her. Since then, my address has often been her home on many of my visits to Bombay.

Whether it was cooking or music, she was a perfectionist to the core. We would spend hours discussing the finer points of a difficult moorchana of a raga or about the process of making a particular kind of chutney. I must admit she would often lead when it came to the former.

Coming from North Karnataka, where the thali is a riot of colours with our various kinds of chutneys and pickles, I would often dig out ancient recipes from my memory to satisfy her curiosity. Whenever I was in their house, she would insist I make the groundnut chutney in our style.

She had this big thing about the old, painful memories which she kept locked away in her heart. "Those are the only real treasures I have," she would say. "They help me keep my feet firmly on the ground." Like little girls, we would spend endless hours chatting about old times. We would end up crying or burst out laughing as we recalled the foolish things we had done.

I have nothing to say about the "dynamism" of today's classical musicians, who think that adapting their style to today's needs is essential to win the hearts of music lovers. It is one issue I have consciously kept away from. But I have a strong belief in the purism of music. This was the result of Moghubai's influence -- she steadfastly refused to court popularity by being betrothed to the current modes of music.

She had a rule: dhrupadiyas should sing the dhrupad, khayaliyas should sing khayals and thumri singers should stick to the thumri. "Sagli khichdi keli kahich dhad jamat nahin (If you mix them all, you won't be good in any genre)," she would say.

It was from her that I developed a passion for the khayal gayaki. Despite the popularity that the thumri was attaining, she steadfastly refused to sing it even once. Even when offers for concerts dried up and the family would be forced to go through lean, difficult patches, she resolutely stood by this rule.

She would never suffer a compromise, preferring austerity to the heaven of popularity. This specialisation saw her gayaki develop great levels of layakari and bol-taans. The rhythmic element of her gayaki took you into a different world, it was as if somebody was pouring nectar into your ears -- the swaras blending with the laya... their presence strongly seen in the alaapi... in the unfolding of lesser known ragas. When she sang, the swaras would never obscure in the huge web of taans and bol-taans.

As a little girl, she was being groomed to play Vasantsena in the musical Mircchakatika -- a masterly Marathi adaptation of the Sanskrit original. Chintoba Gurav from the drama company had taught her the popular song, Maadivari chal ga gade. She grew so fond of the song that she would sing it constantly. Ustad Alladiya Khan from the Jaipur gharana heard her sing as he was passing by and was impressed. He offered to train her and she learnt under him for over 25 years, till his death in 1946.

Kishori Amonkar

It is the loss of this beauty of the Jaipur gayaki style which hurts the most. What comes as a consolation is the way she instilled the same rigorous discipline in her daughter, Kishori. Let me put on record here that the mother may not have had any of the fiery aggression of her daughter, but Kishori has managed to retain her mother's mellow introspection.

Moghubai abhorred film music and Western music. "Evdhe aishwarya aapplyach ghari asthana kahshala dusryancha ushta-karkhada ka patkarava (Why should we seek others's leftovers, when we have such a treasure trove in our own house)?" she would ask.

When Kishori rendered the title song of Geet Gaya Patharon Ne, her mother was livid. She resorted to a hunger strike for three days and ate a morsel only after she extracted promise from Kishori that she would never sing for films again.

Truly, the life of this gaantapaswini is a study in rare ambition, sincere hardwork and gurubhakti.

The legendary Gangubai Hangal spoke to Leela Pawar

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Design: Dominic Xavier.

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