Incredible is about the only word to describe Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur, who turns 75 on December 31. He is the last titan still amazingly active on the Hindustani concert stage. And continues to sing with a verve, grace and vigour surprising for his age. Of course, his concert appearances are getting fewer – and naturally so, but whenever he condescends to sing in public, his music elevates him to a plane far, far above the vast multitude of his confreres, many of them eminent in their own right but much younger. My acquaintance with Mansur’s music was through his commercial records.

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That was in the early ’40s, when I was a college student. I still cherish the nostalgic memories of those three-minute discs of Goud-Malhar, Adana, Todi and Yamani Bilaval for their racing, sprightly musical lines, intricate rhythms and complex, odd-shaped taans. They had a stately quality which his tenor yet vibrant voice conveyed with a naturalness all its own. So abiding was their impact on my ears that I seldom missed an opportunity to listen to his radio recitals. (Public concerts were not so much in vogue then as they are today.). The maestro was so sure of his touch that he totally dispensed with the preliminary alapi in the presentation of his individual ragas. Yet he established immediate rapport with his listeners by the very opening swara of his chosen raga.

In no time did he work himself into an +intense mood and impart to his music the hue and character of his classical thought, his passionate urge for self-expression and instinctive feeling for the artistic. It was as though his musical thought was in tune with some high ideal of beauty and he was striving to communicate to us with the fire and fervour of an impassioned utterance. Few, indeed, are great musicians like Mansur – who unfailingly share their pure, sensuous joy with their listeners from start to finish. And that is what makes a Mansur concert an event always to look forward to even today. Mansur’s gayaki, to my mind, is a rare assimilation of three musical streams – the tradition of Carnatic music and the two vocal traditions of Gwalior and Atrauli-Jaipur. He had his initiation into the Carnati paddhati from Appayya Swami, a veteran vocalist, violinist and playwright of his time. He was then placed under the tutelage of Nilkanthbuva Alurmath, a leading disciple of the maestro Balkrishnabuva Ichalkaranjikar, who is credited to have brought the khayal style of singing from Gwalior to Maharashtra.

It is often said, not without a degree of justification, that the Atrauli-Jaipur gharana, with its dhrupad-like massive form and robust structure, does not lend itself to free and unfettered Interpretation and, for that reason, does not command much popular appeal. It is also argued that it is the felicitous emphasis on layakari and the penchant for ingenious phirat that greatly help to hold the audience’s attention. In other words, the impact of the music is intellectual, which affords little scope for the exponent to show his individual musicianship. Manji Khan was, by common consent, something of a rebel, determined to widen the horizons of his gharana without compromising, in the least, on its fundamentals. He lent it a refreshing quality of romanticism – as Abdul Karim Khan did to his Kirana gharana and Faiyaz Khan to his Agra gharana.

And thereby he evolved a style which was marked not only by the purity and vigour of Alladiya Khan but also the subtlety of his own imagination. Although he did not live long to watch the success of his new genre, it was left to Mansur to promote and popularize it. Here indeed, lies the distinctive character of Mansur’s contribution to the Atrauli-Jaipur gharana in particular and Hindustani music in general. Another important aspect of Manji Khan’s approach to music deserves mention. It is his progressive outlook, conditioned by an awareness of the tastes and preferences of his audiences. This was reflected in his repertoire, which included a judicious mixture of light and popular songs, like Marathi bhavgeets, natyageets and bhaktigeets. This has also been the format of Mansur’s concert fare for several years.

It is only in recent years that he has restricted his singing to khayals. Only in very rare cases, and that too, in response to pressing request, does he end his recitals with a Kannada devotional or two.

Mansur is equally grateful to his other gurus who contributed significantly to the moulding of his musicianship. He says his first teacher saw in him the makings of a future musician and initiated him into the mysteries of Carnatic tone and rhythm. Alurmath groomed him in the tradition of the Gwalior gharana, with special emphasis on aakar, alamkar, swara, taal, laya and brief compositions in popular ragas. The grooming from Bhurji Khan, which was the longest, gave him a thorough insight into the laya-oriented, dhrupad-based style of Alladiya Khan along with a rich repertoire of rare and complex ragas.

Strange but true, Mansur chose to remain away from the limelight till he reached 60. At least his concert visits to Bombay had become rare.

Meanwhile, I also gathered that he had accepted – after persuasion – a 10-year assignment as music adviser with AIR, with headquarters at Dharwad, in Karnataka. In keeping with his nature his involvement with the job was so total and complete that he seldom stirred out of Dharwad. Evidently, during this period, he spurned offers for concert recitals, so much so that music circles in Bombay lost sight of him till 1969. The late Kamal Singh, the popular thumri and ghazal singer, who had started his Sangeet Mehfil to organise periodical sangeet sammelans in the city, asked me to suggest names of top artistes who had not performed on the concert stage for a long time. He was planning his annual soiree early that year. He was visibly baffled at my suggestion of Mansur’s name for his sammelan. Sensing his predicament, I assured Kamal Singh that Mansur was quite hale and hearty and musically active, too, leading a quiet life in his home town after retirement from AIR.

Titles, awards and honours began coming to Mansur in profusion: Padmashri in 1970; President’s Award for Hindustani vocal music and Padma Bhushan, in 1976; honorary D Litt from Karnataka University, in 1975; and Kalidas Samman, the prestigious Rs. 1 – lakh award instituted by the government of Madhya Pradesh, in 1981. More recently, he has been nominated as a member of the Karnataka State Legislative Council. He is currently dean of the faculty of music of Karnataka University and, in that capacity, he guides its destiny with typical devotion even while performing at major musical events all over the country.

I have been one of his Bombay hosts during his concert visits to this city over the last 15 years. And with Mansur at home, it is music, music all the way. It is during his brief sojourns that I could get many glimpses of his personality as an artiste as well as a human being. Profoundly simple and humble, there is nothing vain, eccentric or capricious about him. He has both genius and spirit but does not display them. I have often found it ticklish to draw him into a conversation though he delights in informal chats.

During one such conversation, not long ago, the maestro burst into a thumri, a tappa and a dhamar – the forms he has never presented at public concerts. These revealed new facets of his versatility and came to me as a revelation.

In reply to my question, he simply said that he was basically a khayalist and always remained true to the spirit of the Atrauli-Jaipur gharana. He asserted that the khayal style embodied all that is best in the Hindustani tradition of classical and light classical music, which is why it continues to be the most popular style of classical singing. Panditji’s has been high pitched singing. When I sensed a slight degree of tiredness creeping into his intonation, especially in the post-interval part of his concerts, I made bold to ask him, with utmost caution, if he could not bring down his aadhaara shadja (tonic or base note) to a lower key. To my relief and joy, he instinctively understood the import of my suggestion and acted on it, adopting what is popularly known as the ‘Black Two’ key of the harmonium, for his tonic.

This was about a decade ago. Although, even at 75, he has plenty of muscle in his voice, both emotional and physical, his listeners cannot but notice that it is no longer plentiful enough to sustain him uniformly in a full-fledged concert lasting three hours or so. That is because he loses himself in his creative ecstasy and oblivious of his advancing years, strains himself needlessly when he switches over to the faster movements in singing.

The result is that more often than not, the maestro clearly looks frayed during his post-interval singing. When, recently I sought to plead with him, through my review column in The Times of India, to counsel a degree of moderation in expending his physical energy, his reaction was not one of annoyance, but of helplessness. “I simply can’t manage it,” he said, with a disarming laugh. Music to Pandit Mansur is not just an a vocation. With him, it is a way of life and, through it, he seeks to express the very essence of his inward being.

As he often declaims: “I have never let my thought and action deviate from my music.” Indeed, he ‘lives it’. Those who have chanced to visit him at his Dharwad residence in the morning hours will know what I mean. You will hear him sing when he is plucking flowers in his garden for his pooja. There is an incantational fervour in his musical soliloquy. The soulful strains elevate you even as they mingle with the wafting breeze. The same spirit pervades his pooja room when, after his bath, Panditji sits to offer prayers to his deity, Lord Shiva, with flowers and music, which is often an invocatory bandish, like ‘He Mahadev’, in Bahaduri Todi, or ‘He Narahara Narayana’, in Bibhas, taught to him by his musical mentors. A deeply, religious man, Panditji attributes his attainments equally to his professional mentors and spiritual gurus.

He refers feelingly to the blessings bestowed on him by three eminent saints of Karnataka – Siva Basava Swami, Siddharudha Swami and Mrityunjaya Swami. He began his concert career as a boy of 15 with his recital before Siva-Basava Swami and he has named his house after Mrityunjaya Swami. He firmly believes that his association with these saints brought about radical change in his temperament. Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur is a man more inclined to listen than to speak. It is only rarely that he condescends to talk about himself and that, too, when his mood permits. Lately, the maestro has developed a strong dislike for formal, long-drawn-out interviews if it is meant for publication. So much so that when I sought an interview with him during his visit to Bombay last month, pat came his reply: “You have known me so well for so long.

No more interviews to you or to any one else. I am tired of talking about me or my music or my professional career.”. I owe my surname to my native village in Dharwad district in Karnataka state.

I was married at the age of 10 to a girl of 5. There was no music in the family, but my father was deeply interested in musical drama. I was first attracted to the stage while only eight. I left school and joined a Kannada drama troupe of which my elder brother, Basavaraj, who later became a noted stage-actor, was a partner.

I became very popular as an actor-singer when I was still in my teens. I played a variety of roles in many Kannada mythologicals which were the rage of those days.

As is now known, I had learnt the basics of Carnatic music from Appayya Swami, who himself was an employee of the drama company in which I worked. Later, I joined another touring troupe and during its sojourn at Bagalkot, in Bijapur district, I chanced to hear a recital of Nilkanthbuva Alurmath.

He was a veteran exponent of the Gwalior gharana of Hindustani music and I was greatly fascinated by his performance. He also heard me on the stage and, in response to my request, he readily took me as his disciple. My company even agreed to pay him a monthly remuneration of Rs. 100 to teach me! During my company’s camp at Miraj, I had an opportunity to hear the great stalwart, Alladiya Khan, who was the founder of the Atrauli-Jaipur gharana. The impact of his music made such a deep impression on my mind that I began cherishing the ambition of learning from the ustad.

His age and eminence forbade me from approaching him. My mind was distraught and I came to Bombay in search of a comparable guru after leaving my studentship with Alurmathbuva and also the dramatic company.

Rambling through the city streets. I happened to meet Vishnupant Pagnis, the famous Marathi stage and film actor-singer and also a leading jeweller. I learnt that he was a close friend of Ustad Manji Khan, the young, versatile exponent of the Atrauli-Jaipur gharana and son and disciple of Alladiya Khan Saheb.

Fortunately, Pagnis had heard my first gramophone disc which was already out. To introduce me to Manji Khan, he played my disc before him. Deeply impressed by my singing, he gladly accepted me as his disciple. But Manji Khan Saheb died suddenly and prematurely in less than two years and I was left without a guru. A little later, Bhurji Khan Saheb, the late ustad’s younger brother, began teaching me systematically.

He also took me along with him on all his professional tours. This gave me valued concert experience.

What is being taught in the music schools, colleges and universities helps the students only to the extent of understanding the basic principles of music. It is sad that music students are required to have formal educational qualifications.

This naturally prevents talented young artistes, deprived of formal education, from joining the music courses in the universities. You will be interested to know that I have made a departure at the Institute of Fine Arts of Karnataka University in this respect. I have thrown open its six-year certificate course in music to all those who are genuinely interested in learning music.

This is irrespective of their educational qualifications. I am a gharana man. The gharana system is vital to our tradition. Without it we can never have a generation of true artistes.

Can there be a real kalakar emerging out of the present-day educational system? On his shishya parampara: There is a general lack of competent gurus in the field. This lack is matched by absence of dedication and discipline among students. Speaking for myself, I have tried to teach many students but few of them have ever cared to pursue their profession seriously. On audience appreciation of Hindustani music: Not all those who hear classical music today can be said to have real love or taste for it. Times have changed and we have come to live in an age of mass appreciation.

The masses should be helped to understand and appreciate the finer points of classical music in several ways, for example, by explaining to them, in simple language, what is swara, laya, bandish and the like. I haven’t cared to go on a concert tour abroad. But I welcome this ‘export’ of music.

It is a laudable effort, in so far as music-loving Indians residing abroad are concerned. Being far from their motherland, they feel starve of our music.

As for foreigners, they seem to attend Indian music concerts largely out of curiosity and partly to please their Indian friends. Ironically, our artistes except in a few cases, seem to indulge in musical gymnastics and gimmickry in an attempt to dazzle the audiences there. On their return home, they demonstrate before their home audiences what they did abroad and how they won their applause.

This trend has caught on in the country – mostly among instrumentalists – and their audiences. If it goes unchecked, it is going to be suicidal. Here we present a private CD with two versions of Raga Basanti Kedar: one by Mogubai Kurdikar and one by Sardarbai Karadgekar, both of the Jaipur-Atrauli Gharana from around the same period. Whereas Mogubai Kurdikar was very famous in her time, of Sardarbai Karadgekar one hardly knows anything.

Apparently she was a disciple of Nathhan Khan (Alladiya Khansaheb’s nephew). She is also said to have learned in her later life from Nivruttibua Sarnaik, like her from Kolhapur and one of the main disciples of Ustad Alladiya Khan. We will post recordings by him in the near future. In 2011 we had posted a with a Raga Bihagda by Sardarbai Karadgekar. The previous generation of musicians had devotedly pursued music, studied it and become famous, but destiny was on their side. Inspite of an extraordinary intellect, however, luck was not in Mogubai’s favour. At the time, Goa’s Kalavant community was undergoing a revolution.

The fame of musicians had spread everywhere. Every mother wanted her child to become a musician and bring honour to the family name.

It was no surprise then that Mogubai’s mother Jayshreebai had the same ambition. With a seven year old Mogu in tow she walked the distance from Kurdi to Zambavli. She requested a Haridas who had settled here to teach her daughter music. The buwa responded, “Bai, I wander from place to place and have no fixed abode. My stay here is of limited duration.” But Jayshreebai was insistent.

“Teach her as long as you are here”, she said. He taught her as best he could during the remaining part of his stay. This interruption at the outset of her musical education was to haunt Mogubai all her life. Jayshreebai’s desire, however, did not dim till the end. She had vowed, as it were, to make her daughter a singer worthy of standing alongside the greats.

Someone suggested she approach the songsters that toured with drama companies. Full of hope, Jayshreebai took Mogubai to a company called “Chandreshwar Bhootnath Sangeet Mandali”. They made this company their home.

And this touring company took their destiny for a ride too. This was a somewhat small drama company of that time. The bustle of their shows spanned twenty and sometimes all thirty days in a month. Jayshreebai had been sucked into a maelstrom. The owner of the company was shrewd.

He gauged Jayshreebai’s needs, noted her daughter’s sweet voice and then lost no time in roping in Mogu for roles like that of ‘Prahlad’ or ‘Dhruv’. This premature burden on her daughter’s shoulders pierced the mother’s heart, but to hear her confident, melodious singing, her playful bantering with rhythm to applause was elysian.

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She would dream of seeing Mogu become a great singer in the future. She was not destined, however, to have this happen in her lifetime. Physical labour took its toll, she fell ill and then passed away leaving her only daughter, an orphan. While on her deathbed, she handed over the charge of her daughter to Balkrishna Parvatkar, a person from her own village who also worked for the company, and told him, “Please help my daughter become an eminent singer.”.

On the point of death she had held Mogu’s hand in hers and said, ”Mogu, my soul will be around you at all times and only when you carve out a name for yourself as a great singer will it find salvation!” Mogu’s childish mind may not have made any sense of this, but the words themselves remained etched in her memory to the end. And when she understood what those words meant she vowed — ” I shall withstand boundless suffering, endure physical pain, even disregard humiliation to learn music and fulfil your desire!” Vows torment the sincere. They load the dice against them.

Success comes in sight only when the verve has gone and only after a lot of sorrows have been digested. Such is the story of Mogubai’s life too. After Jayshreebai’s death, the drama troupe that supported Mogubai, ‘Chandreshwar Bhootnath’ was racked by internal fissures. Soon differences cropped up between the owners, and the company folded.

Mogubai had to return to her village and somehow pass the time. Unexpectedly, one day, she received an invitation from another company, ‘Satarkar Streesangeet Mandali’. Balkrishna Parvatkar did not let this means of livelihood slip.

He immediately had Mogubai join the company. Gradually, the parts Mogubai played became popular and she got roles like that of Subhadraa in Saubhadra and Kinkini in Punyaprabhav.

Her name was enough to sell tickets. All said and done, however, it was a drama troupe and one of women, to boot! Any drama company is born with the baggage of jealousy, rivalry and resentment. Things came to a head one day.

Mogubai had to leave the company as a consequence of a severe quarrel with her mistress. One can only imagine what bitter disappointment and anguish Mogubai’s artistic soul must have felt as she made her way back to her village. What did the future hold for her except a return to the hard life of a drama company?

Had she fulfilled the promise she had made to her mother? Her life, however, was slipping away. Mogubai’s studious mind had achieved two things while she was with the ‘Satarkar Stree Sangeet Mandali” — a compact training in Natyasangeet from the late Chintubuwa Gurav and primary lessons in dance from the company’s resident dancer Ramlal. Later, out of sheer interest, she had taken advanced training in dance from two proficient dance masters — Chunilal and Majelkhan.

But this was just as a hobby. All this helped her imbibe the rhythmic aspects of music so thoroughly, that they now ran in her blood. Mogubai fell ill because of the heartache that leaving the drama company had caused her. A doctor recommended a change of climate. Acting on this advice, she set up residence in the nearby province of Sangli. There, on the suggestion of some well-wishers, she started learning from Khansaheb Inayatkhan.

But, soon for some trivial reason, the whimsical Khansaheb stopped teaching her. This was the second setback her musical education had received in its infancy.

Although her training had stopped, she continued to rehearse whatever little Khansaheb had taught her. She got so wrapped in this riyaaz that she forgot herself. One evening she sat rehearsing an ornamental swara pattern she had learnt from Inayatkhan, completely absorbed in her own musical world, when her spell was broken by a noise that appeared to come from the doorway. She opened her eyes and there stood before her an elderly person with the looks of a yogi, a huge white moustache and wearing a pink turban. Her fingers lay still on the tanpura and her face took on a quizzical expression. Before she could speak, he said, taking a step forward, “Please continue your riyaaz. I listen to your singing everyday.

Today, I came to see you in person.”. He continued, “If you come to Bombay, I will somehow find the time to teach you. You have understood my gayaki. Now it is only a matter of adding to your store of knowledge.” Khansaheb left for Bombay.

Mogubai was distraught. Her training had been interrupted. What would she do now? She was getting increasingly desperate. “What are you doing here? Go to Bombay!”, she kept telling herself.

But this was easier said than done. However, when one truly yearns for something one automatically acquires the strength to achieve it.

During her stay in Sangli she had been inspired by the music of the late Rahimat Khan and of Pt. Balkrishnabuwa Ichalkaranjikar. Their lives were also intensely inspiring. Mogubai decided to take a leap into the unknown. She journeyed to Bombay where she found a small place for herself in Khetwadi. Also, she met Khansaheb and requested him to resume his tutelage. Now one would have expected things to go smoothly for a while.

Only a few days had passed when Khansaheb stopped coming for his regular lessons. Inquiries revealed that Khansaheb’s hosts in Bombay had forbidden him to train anyone else. They did not wish anybody else to carry the stamp of the Alladiya Khan gharana. Khansaheb was helpless. He had been fenced in by someone’s fear of being bested by a talented woman like Mogubai quickly absorbing his teaching. Unwittingly, Mogubai had created hidden enemies.

Her training had been interrupted and it was as if the sky had fallen upon her. The very thing for which she had left all to come to Bombay was now nowhere in sight. Everything now seemed futile to her. She spent several days worrying. Ultimately, in frustration, she requested Bashir Khan, a son of Bade Mohammad Khan, to train her. Bashir Khan agreed on the condition that she perform the ganda-bandhan with Vilayat Khan.

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Desperate to start learning again, she scraped together whatever little she had and put up a grand ganda-bandhan ceremony. Bashir Khan began to teach her. Naturally, Alladiya came to know of this. He feared that a different teacher would change the mould of her voice, something he had designed. He wanted someone as talented as Mogubai to continue in his musical lineage. One day, he went to Mogubai and said, “Mogu, stop your training with Bashir Khan. I will arrange for your tutoring with my brother Hyder Khan.

The distinctive pattern I have given your singing should not be tampered with.”. Mogubai’s fast-paced progress made Alladiya’s other pupils green with envy. The thought that Mogubai had shot ahead of them constantly pricked them. There was only one thing they could do. Persuade Khansaheb, warn him and get him to exert pressure. And that is what they did. Alladiya Khan compelled Hyder Khan to leave Bombay, which he did on the pretext of ill-health.

But before leaving he made Mogubai aware of all that had transpired. As he took her leave, he was crying, and cursing those who would suck the vitality out of someone’.

However, it was Mogubai who was deprived of all support by this incident. Shrimati Mogubai is now known as one of India’s great singers. She also teaches music and several of her students have made a name for themselves.

A chance to hear her is considered a rare bonanza by music lovers. Mogubai, by her achievements, has negated the notion that only a wealthy person can pursue the musical arts. At times, she would even drink water to quell her hunger rather than interrupt her endeavour. She got what she wanted and for which she devoted her whole life. Shy of publicity, she received less popularity than she merited. After all, fate decides how successful or popular one is.

Why is one able to sell trinkets at the price of gold while another can’t sell his gold even at the price of trinkets? That’s the way the cookie crumbles. However, wise men know the difference between a bauble and a ring of solid gold. Gateway series books.

And as long as there are wise people in this world, a person sincere about his business need not worry. He will always get the respect he deserves. I have two copies of this cassette, both on CD.

The first is a private CD made by our friend DM in 2001. I don't know if it was made directly from the original cassette or from a copy on cassette, perhaps from the collection of James Stevenson, as two of our previous posts. The second I purchased a few years ago, also as a privately made CD, from an Indian collector. This one is about 10 minutes longer. How much it corresponds to the original cassette I don't know. If these are the two sides of one cassette merged into one track I also don't know.

And there is still a question regarding a small gap around minute 44:35.