Over the past week, I have been re-exploring the music of late sitar maestro Ustad Vilayat Khan. From my CD collection to random sampling on YouTube, I played ragas Bageshri, Bihag, Yaman, Darbari Kanhada, Bilaskhani Todi and Tilak Kamod.
The phase began suddenly, after I started reading, The Sixth String of Vilayat Khan, a recent biography by Namita Devidayal. Having been a huge fan of the legend for two decades, I was interested in getting to know more about him. But instead of just reading it, I decided to make it a unique experience by getting back into past recordings and jotting down trivia associated with the maestro.
Rewind in time
My mind wandered back to 1998, the only time I interviewed Khan. This was before he was to do a jugalbandi with shehnai monarch Ustad Bismillah Khan at the Brabourne Stadium. Having heard about his whimsical ways, I was obviously nervous, but luckily he was in a good mood. Later, all my attempts to meet him were in vain. Devidayal had also met him only once, she sourced her information through people who knew him and by visiting places he lived in. This needed a different approach.
In most cases, biographers have known the artistes personally or followed their work for years. A lot has been written about Khan's playing style and especially the use of gayaki ang (vocal technique), and how he adapted the sitar to suit his expression. His rivalry with Pandit Ravi Shankar has been the subject of a lot of print and party conversation material.
The new biography takes the reader beyond all that, from Khan's family origins to his struggle to make it big, from his passion for cars and stylish suits, to vices he picked up over the years. The description of his relation with his sons Shujaat and Hidayat, and brother Imrat, makes for interesting reading. And barring the chapter describing his technique, it's been written in a style easy enough to attract an universal audience.
Traditional rivals
Handling Khan's rivalry with Ravi Shankar was naturally a difficult task, and Devidayal deliberately underplays it. There are many who believe the hype was created by organisers or people close to both artistes. I have admired both equally, and would listen to them depending on my mood, and even tune in to the late Pandit Nikhil Banerjee, Rais Khan and Abdul Halim Jaffer Khan at times.
Before I met Khan, I had been exposed to a fair amount of Shankar's recordings. I had also interviewed him twice, and found him extremely charming and articulate. There was no distance. In contrast, one had to be careful while interacting with Khan. But the more one explored Khan's music, the more one admired it. Each note had a certain beauty, a certain soul. The way he constructed the raga, and the pauses he used between phrases, were magical. Often, one wished he would play the alaap endlessly. The day he passed away in March 2004, I paid my last respects in Byculla, where his body had been kept. Returning to the office, I spoke to Ravi Shankar about Khan.
Forever grace
Shankar was in New Delhi those days, and it took a few phone calls to reach him. Graceful as he was, he was in full praise of the departed soul. Asked about their enmity, he calmly replied, “These are technical matters, and different listeners have different perceptions. This is not the moment to talk about it. All I can say is that India has lost one of its treasures whose contribution is immense.” One had to agree, as Khan's sitar had that special power and charm. To discover that yet again, it's time for me to play his rare raga Sanjh Saravali. It's a unique journey, much like his life.
