There is no swan song
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An ageing body is no trap for a spirit that soars high above and beyond. Gangubai Hangal's recent concert was a perfect instance
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photo: bhagya prakash k.
NO STOPPING HER Gangubai Hangal strikes her characteristic `traffic constable pose' as she renders an intense Abhogi
In a language and deportment most unpretentious, Gangubai Hangal has this amazing ability to state facts that could startle you out of what you believed was the universal truth. For instance, years ago, she turned topsy-turvy the world's notions that music was therapeutic by famously saying: "Whoever said one forgets all sorrows the minute you sit with the tanpura? In fact, I'm flooded with emotions and there are times that I've had to abandon my riyaz. The thought of tomorrow worries me... " You want to attribute that to her youth, her full-bloodedness?
Gangubai, the grand old lady of the Kirana gharana, is now 95. At Sri Rama Kala Vedike's felicitation to her in Bangalore last week, she once again hit you on the head just when you expected to hear from her what musicians of her generation would normally say about today's music. "People keep telling me that classical music is waning. How can that happen? The cradle rocks and rocks before it comes to a stop, but only till someone else again sets it in motion all over again." Using a domestic metaphor, her only other world apart from music, Gangubai said it all. It was at once scientific too. Remember Newton's theory of inertia?
"I wanted to sing Miyan ki Malhar, but I feel scared," announced Gangubai with a child-like innocence, fearing that her voice wouldn't rise up to the expectations of the raga.
Manoj Hangal, her grandson who dotes on her, made elaborate arrangements for the frail doyenne. He brought pillows for backrest, a flask of hot water, her medicines and then hovered around her anxiously. He was anxious that true to her characteristic self, she would get carried away; more than what her body could take.
Four of her students converged around her with tanpuras. She started Abhogi and everybody in the audience moved to the edge of their seats. "I'm not sure if I can meet your expectations. It's ages since I sang. I want to sing because my Krishna left me two years ago on this day," said an emotional Gangubai, still mourning the loss of her daughter.
The initial minutes were a little shaky; she looked around for help. One almost felt she was looking for Krishna Hangal who always gave her saath in music as in life, her melodious voice like the quiet but reassuring presence of a shadow always joining her own booming one.
Her Abhogi was power-packed, her voice soared like her spirit and nothing could put a check on her. Not even the chest pain she complained ofin between the robust phrases. "It hurts," she told her student. You have to go slow, he gestured. All her four students put together couldn't match the force of her voice. Manoj rushed and tried to tell her that half an hour of Abhogi was fine and she should stop. But how could she stop without singing Bhairavi? It was so soul-stirring for her and for everybody in the auditorium that when she broke down once again for Krishna at the end of the rendition, the audience wept for her.
It was her personal triumph, but why did I soak in a sense of gratification?
Is it because of the strength I draw from Gangubai and the many women like her, who soldiered in the face of all sorts of adversities, ultimately emerging triumphant. But at that instant, I too had my share of victory: all the cameras that were desperately clicking way to record that moment which they perceived as fleeting was going to remain with me permanently, and without technological aid.
DEEPA GANESH
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