We have heard the legend of King Uttanapada who rejected his first wife and her son Dhruv, reserving all his attention and affection for his second wife and her son. Dhruv longs for paternal love, he dreams of being caressed by his father. He undertakes a long penance in the forest seeking a boon, to be taken on his father’s lap.
Sometimes myths ‘photograph’ reality. Reading Bhimsen Joshi, My Father by son Raghavendra Bhimsen Joshi (Raghu) is to see a modern Dhruv undergoing the same emotions felt by his ancient counterpart. Right from the dedication we know that the biographer recognises his mother’s and wife’s lifelong support, but his heart is given to a far from ideal father, who treated his wife and legitimate sons with scant respect. He surrenders “to the divine notes of my father Bhimsen Joshi,” and signs off with a revealing image, “to which I am always tied through my umbilical cord.” A desperate longing for acceptance as the true son fires the book with passion.
The author also declares that he “received and understood” Hindustani classical maestro Bhimsen Joshi (Bhimanna) through his music, but there is little in the book of that music beyond some mention of riyaz , and eulogies of performances. It is about the pater familias , his foibles, failings and fame, arousing mixed reactions in the son.
When the author says, “I am content with (my) ordinariness that enabled me to understand and appreciate Bhimanna’s greatness,” we realise that we must engage not with what is stated in words, but with the waves of distress that rise and roll and recede through the 220 pages that follow. We begin to hear the son’s sad story, not the father’s glorious epic.
Tales of abandonment
This story begins in Nagpur, with the six-year-old Raghu waking up to his mother’s loud wail, “I am undone.” The father has been ‘entrapped’ by another woman whom the writer stubbornly refuses to name. She remains ‘She’ and ‘Her’ to the dispossessed boy.
What did his father find in the other woman when he had a beautiful and loving wife in his mother Sunanda? Had he not met Sunanda on visits to her hometown Badami, surreptitiously gifted her with face cream, talcum powder and blouse piece with the impassioned plea, “Marry me, don’t say no!” Later, finding his wife drawing water from a well, had he not shouted, “My wife will not do such chores!” Did he not bring fresh marigold flowers for her to wear at night? And didn’t Sunanda’s unremitting care help him get through a severe bout of typhoid and recover his voice?
When Sunanda was forced to stop at her sister’s place because of a downpour, didn’t Bhimanna cycle through the slush to arrive at 3 am, to take her home as he couldn’t do without her? How could the same man decamp one night with a co-actor? Abandon his lawful wedded partner and their three children, even steal her jewels? How could he allow the home-breaker to use the wife’s gold chain for her mangalsutra ?
Sunanda follows her husband to Pune to beg for help to raise his children. She becomes a hanger-on and housemaid in his home, nurses the other woman through her pregnancy, babysits the newborn. After being shifted to her own humble quarters, Sunanda has to be satisfied with stealthy visits and erratic support from Bhimanna, now famous and earning well, but too scared of his mistress to give his first family proper protection and financial security.
Raghu describes Bhimanna’s sudden visits with gifts—a bicycle, sharkskin trousers, dresses, rosogolla , giving the son a motorbike ride, driving his family around in his Dodge car, taking photographs with his new camera, parodying a film dance for their amusement. “Such moments were few and far between: most times, there were altercations and arguments.”
What is interesting about all these intimate gossipy happenings between two warring households is the fact that Raghu never blames his father. All rancour is reserved for ‘her’. It is she who is evil, jealous, who deprives Raghu’s patrimony, hates to see the legitimate son do well in music without the formal training given to her son.
The author’s ‘father worship’ remains unaffected. It is a living presence in memories as when the child Raghu wakes up to Joshi’s morning riyaz in the days before ‘she’ parted them. “I snuggled closer… He paused for a minute, picked me up, kissed me on my cheek. The fragrance of his body and touch of his hairy chest come back to me even now.”
Reading about honours won by his father, finding his house cordoned off by security personnel when VIPs visited the famous musician, why, even hearing his father’s name announced in Hindi and English before the national radio broadcasts were to the son “matchless… unforgettable moments of joy.” You hear the rapture in the voice when he says, “A single shower of his music was worth a hundred blows of indifference.”
In his translation Shirish Chindhade retains the flavours of the original Marathi, the texture of bilingual (Kannada-Marathi) town culture, a personal and conversational tone. The continual citing of examples from myths adds authenticity to the narrative.
Raghu loves to recall incidents from Bhimanna’s early life—the infant of three teaching his mother to sing a Purandaradasa bhajan; the child singing to the crowding hens when he gets stuck in a chicken coop; the schoolboy saying, “But I am only going to sing,” when thrashed for failing in all subjects; the actor who covers his head and spins the charkha as Kasturba Gandhi; the disciple hiding from his guru in friend and classmate Gangubai Hangal’s bathroom; the singer who astounds with his classic Yaman, but can also walk on the streets chanting bhajans with pilgrims.
Father’s boy
The son never sees weak-mindedness or lack of moral strength in the father, only misleading vulnerability, endearing innocence. Exploited by the other woman, her family and her children, he suffers in silence. He doesn’t know how to deal with their rapacity, nor is he able to right wrongs done to his legitimate family. The son believes that painful experiences and some guilt make Bhimanna’s music radiant, profound. Bhimanna’s life ends in sickness, neglect, like “Bhishma on a bed of arrows.” He refuses to move to Raghu’s caring home because he believes that those who had robbed him should also perform the distasteful duty of nursing him in his last days.
The biographer rants against the injustice done to him and his family by ill wishers.
At the end of the book, you are left with the question: did this writing become an act of catharsis for the author?
Bhimsen Joshi, My Father ; Raghavendra Bhimsen Joshi, Translated by Shirish Chindhade, Oxford University Press, ₹550.
