Memoirs
The oneness of breath and music
JYOTIRMAYA SHARMA
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Rasa Yatra is important because it contains comments on other musical stalwarts that could act as the catalyst for a mature debate towards a non-hagiographical understanding of music and musicians.
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Rasa Yatra: My Journey in Music, Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur, translated from the Kannada by Pandit Rajshekar Mansur, Roli Books, p.144, Rs. 295.
SUBJECTIVITY of interpretation and creative improvisation is the very stuff that constitutes Hindustani classical music. Equally, fiercely individualistic opinions, peppered with stories of envy and rivalry among musicians, are a part of the anecdotal history of this genre of music. Very rarely does one encounter one musician commenting on other musicians in print and with any degree of finality.
Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur's autobiography, Rasa Yatra: My Journey in Music, is important not only because it tells us the musical journey of a genius, but also because it contains comments on other musical stalwarts that could act as the catalyst for a mature debate towards a non-hagiographical understanding of music and musicians.
Pandit Mansur admired Ustad Vilayat Hussain Khan Saheb of the Agra gharana (style of singing) for his scholarship and his ability to bring out the character of a raga, but found his voice "not blessed with the melody that could match his scholarliness". Panditji found that the doyen of the Agra style of singing could not "stir deep emotions in the listeners' mind".
Even more controversial are his comments on Kesarbai Kerkar, a renowned vocalist of his own gharana. Mansur acknowledges Kesarbai's "well-practised" voice that had the "richness of hours of riyaz", but still found her voice deficient in capturing the heart. He comments on her "total lack of involvement in the rendition", and faults her with lacking "creativity in her repertoire". His comments on Kishori Amonkar's mother, Mogubai, are less strident.
Great Masters of other gharanas come in for fulsome praise and so do fellow travellers. The single thread that runs through the criticism is the absence of an ability to touch a listener's heart, transcending mere technical virtuosity or perfection of rendition. The source of these comments are to be found in the way Pandit Mansur embarked upon his musical journey and the influence his second guru, Ustad Manji Khan, the son of the legendary Ustad Alladiya Khan Saheb, had on his musical temperament.
The music continuum
After the formal initiation ceremony, Ustad Manji Khan Saheb taught Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur to sing raga Bhimpalas. In many ways, this rendition "marked" Mansur for life. It set a standard that went beyond the technical nuances of rendering a raga. "Each note beckoned the next note with open arms and one merged into the other", says Pandit Mansur, invoking a deeply sensuous imagery. What was so distinctive about Manji Khan Saheb's singing was the total fusion of "breath and music", to the extent that there was little distinction between the two. Listening to his guru, he realised that "deep within the conscience of an artiste, music has no beginning and no end". The movement of melody, he says, is within the "being" of a singer. In other words, limitations of the body had been transcended and the fusion of breath and music had conspired to create supreme joy.
Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur's autobiography is full of such insights. The Great Master of the Jaipur gharana style of singing was also a deeply thoughtful man. While his autobiography, admirably translated by his son and musical heir, Pandit Rajshekhar Mansur, is titled Rasa Yatra, it is also Pandit Mansur's adhyaatma yatra or spiritual journey. Music and spirituality run like parallel streams in his narrative. He invokes the memory of spiritual mentors with the same devotion as he speaks of his gurus. Therefore, the Arabavi Mahanta Shivayogi's exhortation that total surrender was the highest form of worship became an article of faith in life as well as for music.
No gimmickry
Encounters with musical geniuses like Manji Khan Saheb and Burji Khan Saheb as well as spiritual gurus like Mrityunjaya Swami gave Panditji a sense of modesty and a theory of limits. His was not the way of gimmickry, flamboyance and showmanship. The narrative of his memoir begins with a startlingly simple, yet meaningful, sentence: "I believe that the primary `duty' of a singer is to sing". The operative word here is "primary", though in the text, the word "duty" has been singled out; primary in the sense of not being hostage to ideology, acclaim, rewards, or the craving to play up to the gallery. Was this seemingly restrained idea of his vocation due to diffidence? Was he naturally shy and self-effacing?
The answer to these question lies in the manner in which Pandit Mansur mastered the ideas of Time, creativity and the human condition. It helped him attain a degree of self-possession that enhanced and enriched his music and his life. What he says about these issues is unparalleled in the history of Hindustani classical music, especially in the manner it has been articulated.
I am essentially a person who belongs to the present. I have never ruminated on the past nor woven dreams about my future. Every moment of my present has been dedicated to music. I believe in concentrating on the present which is the core of melody. Whenever one gets distracted from that moment, music runs off-tune.
Confronting the present
Music, therefore, has an immanence that transcends the burdensome memory of the past, whether it be a personal past or even a musical past. Had Mansur replaced the word "core" with "soul", it would have approximated to the same meaning. The attitude to the present is also an attitude to life, which "goes off tune", when consumed by resentments, bitterness and envy. All that remains in the end, when all ephemeral emotions are gone, is the "satvik ananda" or pure and virtuous joy that only music could provide.
When Pandit Mansur's end came, all he asked his son to do was to play the tanpura.
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