Opinion - Editorials

The magic shehnai

Ustad Bismillah Khan (March 21, 1916-August 21, 2006) represented the bridge between classical music as nurtured in the royal courts and its popular version presented on proscenium stages of the world. His contributions were many. He elevated the shehnai from sounding the auspicious notes at weddings to a magic instrument for classical Hindustani music. He enhanced the instrument's range, innovating with the cross fingering system to produce gamaks and tonal modulation appropriate to the spectrum of sound required by Hindustani music. The unique tone that characterised his shehnai, until very nearly the end, was testimony to these brilliant innovations. In this respect, he can be compared to the genius of the Carnatic flute, T.R. Mahalingam (Mali), whose novel technique revolutionised flute playing and then became accepted as the norm. Like Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, another doyen who passed away not too many years ago, Bismillah Khan was an acharya of his century. But perhaps greater than all these achievements was the fact that he represented a world and a worldview that has all but disappeared today. To separate the man and his art was impossible. He did not become a great shehnai player because he hailed from a family of court musicians or because his guru and uncle, Ali Bux `Vilayatu,' was a temple musician in Varanasi. His greatness lay in the fact that he was. And as long as he was, he played.

True genius is sui generis. It is hardly surprising that there is no obvious inheritor of his mantle. While musicians of his generation moved out of their villages to metros such as Delhi, Mumbai, and Chennai, the amiable Ustad remained in Varanasi on the banks of the Ganga, a stone's throw from the beloved Sankat Mochan temple. Musicians from all over the world made a beeline for his home in the temple town, lending it an altogether different dimension as a pilgrimage centre. Humble it was, since there was no wealth he treasured more than his shehnai. It was his `sakhi' (companion) that he placed next to his pillow after his wife's death. It was the object that produced that cherished sur, that perfect note. His house contained a minimum of furniture and little else by way of ornamentation aside from photographs of him being honoured by dignitaries from various corners of the world. It was a cheerfully bare kind of place, in keeping with the maestro's character. Much has been written about the Ustad as a devout Muslim who also worshipped Saraswati, the muse of all artists. His pluralism and tolerance were not learnt. They were instinctive and non-didactic, something that flowed naturally in the context of his being. He belonged to a generation that worshipped naad, the abstract principle of the perfectly tuned note. It was the pursuit of this goal in a culturally composite context that defined his greatness.

© Copyright 2000 - 2009 The Hindu