Anna, Bhai and Tai: Memories of a life in melody with Mallikarjun Mansur

Kumar (Classical singer Kumar Gandharva) died on January 12, 1992, and exactly eight months later, on September 12, Anna (Mallikarjun Mansur) passed away. Vasantaa (Classical singer Vasantrao Deshpande) left us long ago, many years before these two. Three icons of Hindustani Classical Music – with their own glory, stature and brilliance. Like many of my contemporaries, I consider myself fortunate to be able to listen to these three in one lifetime. But more than that, thanks to Bhai (PL Deshpande), not only was I acquainted with them, but I got to know and bond with them intimately.

I had heard a lot about Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur from Bhai. Around 1947 or 48, I had also gone with Bhai to Anna’s baithak at Jyotsna Tai’s (Jyotsna Bhole) house on the occasion of her daughter Vandana’s birthday, in Pune. I had also heard his recordings. But until 1959 or so, I really had no opportunity to get to know him personally. In 1959, when we were in Delhi, he came to our house with KD Dixit. Bhai was then working with Akashwani and Delhi Doordarshan. Mallikarjun Mansur had come for some singing or recording related work to Delhi. Accompanying him were his wife and his infant daughter Girija. Musicians from anywhere in the country who came to Delhi for All India Radio recordings were warmly hosted by the Dixits at their residence.

Bhausaheb (Dixit) and Nirmala-vahini were like dada and vahini (sister-in-law) for us. We knew each other’s acquaintances and guests, thanks to our common love of literature and music.

Mallikarjun Anna came for the first time to our house that day. He wore a dhoti, a long coat, and a topi. It has been 33 years since then, and there had been no change in his attire. With age, his personality and singing had grown and matured. But rarely did I find any change in behaviour, his style of talking, or for that matter, his laughter. Anna had come to our house for lunch. But before lunch, we had his singing session. Bhai on the harmonium. The Dixit couple, me and Anna’s wife with their infant daughter on her lap. These were the only listeners. I do not remember what he sang that day. But whatever he sang vouched for all that I had heard about his singing so far. His image before my eyes that day, remains untarnished. It has not faded from my memory. Lately, for the past four-five years, he had shortened the length of his baithaks, but the audience got everything as before. There was never any compromise in quality.

After that baithak at home that day, Anna never needed a formal invitation to come to our house. Whenever he came to town, he always visited us. Later on, whenever he came to Bombay, he would stay with us at our Santacruz home without any hesitation. Once he had a fleeting visit to Mumbai from Dharwad, en-route Delhi or some other place. He came to Santacruz around 11 in the night with Balaji Joshi. He had had dinner, so there was only tea and conversation at our place that night. I very casually asked him, “Anna, what is the difference between khyal and dhrupad?” By now, Anna was perhaps well aware of my profound ignorance of Indian classical music. But my innocent query elicited a thoughtful answer from him. He explained the difference to me, in detail, singing both dhrupad and khyal by giving examples. He sang for an hour or two. My query might have been a tad silly, but I realised that the musical ambience that followed it, lifted the spirits of not only Bhai, but also Anna.

Today, I see before me the sofa on which Anna was singing that day and in front of it is the sofa on which we were sitting and listening. These walls and the trees could not have remained untouched by those pure, meditative notes. When a singer is singing, a fire, an energy is kindled in his body. There is such unity between mind and body. A singer’s notes emanate from his throat, a harmonium player produces sound with his fingers – but their whole body is in sync with the sounds. Can the place where the singer sings, the surroundings, remain unaffected? Today, the lifeless sofa in front of us has become as old as us. Like us, it has lived in that big house in Santacruz to be shifted to this small house in Pune. Even here in Pune, Anna, Vasantaa and so many other singers, big and small, have sung on this sofa. Like me, this sofa, these walls, this house are indeed fortunate.

Once, we were having our usual evening chat here. I remembered a similar evening in Dharwad, where Anna’s daughter had sung Basaveshwar-vachanas with Anna. I requested him to sing them for us, again. Anna started singing them. Vasantaa was sitting opposite him. He started matching him note for note. When one finished, the other began. That poignant evening of the musical question-answer session between Anna and Vasantaa is still fresh in my memory. Notwithstanding our many years of acquaintance with Vasantaa, we hardly knew of his familiarity with the vachanas. Thanks to Anna, we came to know of this facet of Vasantaa’s.

For the past 20-25 years, with a few exceptions, Anna always stayed with us when he came to town. Bhai has described him as “the man who resides in music”. Does he reside in his singing, or do his notes reside unwaveringly in him? Mallika means the flower, jaai. During the child naming-ceremony, when Anna was named Mallikarjun, could anyone have prophesised that musical notes would surround him like the pure, blessed and refreshing fragrance of jaai flowers? When he stayed with us, our whole house became musical. But I must add that, apart from the music, in all other aspects, Anna was quite astounding. He would inform us of his date, day and time of arrival. But the day used to rarely match the date. We would find him sometime around that date or day. Having informed us of his coming at night, he would be at our doorsteps in the early afternoon, or the next morning. His needs were very simple. I took care of his particular brand of beedi, boiled water and agarbatti, and the way he wanted his room. He was so sure that these needs would be taken care of, that he treated our house like his home. I knew of his likes and dislikes in food and prepared them accordingly. Maybe because of this concern, he often told people, “My Tai is like my aai” – my sister is like my mother. When his stay with us was longer, he was invited over for meals. I made it a point to tell the hosts that Anna only has boiled water. I was quite sure they would take care of it, but Anna never was. Before we left home, he would turn around and tell me, “Tai, shall we take our own water? What guarantee that they won’t forget?” He would be so worried, so I would take his water along. Seeing that faith, I would sometimes think that he would even drink tap water from me and not fall ill but would be unsure of others’ carefully boiled water and come back home, thirsty.

Not only did he have abject faith in us, but I also experienced his deep and, at times, blind affection. Once when he was staying with us, our acquaintance, a family from Bombay visited us. They had brought fried fish and other fish preparations with them. All favourites of Bhai. The plan was to have me just make rice and enjoy a sumptuous meal of rice and fish. But seeing Anna at home, they hesitated. We soon had to find a compromise solution to this meal problem. Bhai could still have some of the fish, after Anna went back, so that was promptly stored in the fridge in small boxes. Bhai was chatting with Anna in the outer room. Vasantaa and Dinesh were there too. Both, avid fish eaters. Making an excuse that all will not be able to eat together at the dining table, we decided that our visitors, Vasantaa and Dinesh would partake the fish first. The second round would be the vegetarian round with Bhai and Anna, and the third round would be us, women. While they were eating, I made tea for Anna. Thus, I tried every way to hide this subterfuge. But while they were having food, Anna needed matches for his bidis and he passed them on the way to his room. He would have obviously smelt the fish. But he pretended not to notice it. Seeing our predicament, he decided to ignore the entire affair. Out of his love for us, he forgave us our sins.

We do not follow any gods, religion or rituals in our home. But when he stayed with us, Anna was very diligent with his puja after his bath. He probably brought his gods in his bag with him. I would prepare a thali with a brass pot, water, flowers, agarbatti etc. and he had to make do with that. He would finish his puja within five-six minutes in his room. He did not expect anything more and neither did I ever argue with him on this.

In Dharwad, he had a dedicated wall in his house with a line of photos – of Lingayat swamis, shiva-lingas and the rest. Every day after his bath, his forehead anointed with ash, he would do an elaborate puja of these photos with sandalwood and flowers. Rajshekhar was his only son. The rest were all daughters. Rajshekhar was a Professor of English and a disciple of Anna. But after marrying a Brahmin girl, Rajshekhar found the doors of his home closed on him. So strict was Anna’s adherence to religious traditions. But in that line of photos on the wall, along with the gods, there was also a photo of Alladiya Khan-Saheb. This photo got the same veneration and worship as the gods. What was then, his stand on caste and religious taboos? I could not help myself and one day, ended up asking him, “Anna, in your Dharwad house, you do puja of Alladiya Khan-Saheb’s photo also?” Folding his hands together in prayer, he said “What are you saying, Tai? Guru is god.” Does this imply that in his mind, he had made a neat division between following bhakti towards his Guru but following customs when it came to dealing with his son?

We had visited him often in that Dharwad house. At times, when we had to go to Belgaum, Ghatprabha, Hubbali, or Dharwad for work, we would visit him at his home to see him. At times, we would go to Dharwad only to see him. If we were just the two of us, we would stay in his house. In that house too, there would be music all the time. One evening, Anna was singing Raag Puriya. It was getting along very well. Just then, we saw his daughter beckon him inside from the door. Everybody in his family respected him. His daughters too had beautiful voices and were good singers. So, we knew that nobody would stop his singing midway without any reason. Anna too felt that, and he left us to go inside. We sat there waiting for him, talking to each other in muted tones. Some five-seven minutes had passed, and Anna still had not returned, so I got up to go and see what had happened. What do I see? Anna’s daughter was having a seizure – an epileptic fit. Anna had her head on his lap and was trying to get her back to consciousness. Vahini and the other two daughters were frantically trying to revive her by making her smell onions, splashing her face with water, and desperately trying to pry open her clamped teeth. I too tried to help in whatever way I could. “Should I call the doctor?” I asked. To that Anna replied, “It’s fine, Tai, she will be OK. There is no need to worry. Please tell Bhai that I will be there soon.” Very slowly the girl regained consciousness. Anna was in tears. Wiping his eyes, he started laughing. Perhaps they had dealt with such episodes before. Could that be the reason for their composure and the reason they did not call the doctor? Who knows? I went back and sat. Just then, Anna too came out. The tanpuras were strung, and he re-started his singing at the precise spot where he had left it. As if nothing had interrupted it. We were awe-struck. Is this all so straightforward and easy? It seemed as if Anna was having a conversation with Puriya, which he had to stop abruptly. When he came back, they resumed this conversation, without further ado. Or is it that Puriya was still there in that room when he left it, breathlessly waiting for him. And the moment Anna came back, she mingled with his breath. This person, living simultaneously in life and in music, is he one man or two? Are there two independent personalities living in one body? Merely a few minutes ago, I witnessed the tearful agony of a father. But even in that state of turmoil, one part of his mind had carried on with his singing. It had not affected his tone, his pitch or his rhythm. After he finished singing that cheez, there was spellbound silence. Bhai then casually asked him, “Is Akka all right? Sunita was telling me about it”.

“It’s all fine. In life, something or the other will keep happening”, and he started with his next cheez.

For some reason, if he had to abruptly stop his singing, he had an uncanny ability to resume it on the very precise note he had stopped. Once we had a baithak in Pune in B Gadgil’s house. His taans were unrolling like a reel of silk, when he had to stop suddenly due to some glitch with the tabla. It took about five to seven minutes for things to get back on track. Anna showed the tabalji (the theka) with his hands and within seconds, he resumed his taan and his singing. There was no disruption in the mehfil. It was as if nothing other than Anna’s singing had even occurred there and even that break was our imagination. Our immersion in his singing continued uninterrupted. It was only later that we recollected the interruption and realised that no interference of any kind has the power to interrupt Anna’s mehfil. It is like a firefly flitting across an ocean of stars. We do not forget the firefly, but it does not affect our enjoyment of the stars.

Our memories of Anna are not just about music. Anna used to speak to us on other subjects, as well. He used to like listening to Merdherkar’s and Borkar’s poetry recitations from me, and often recollect similar poems in Kannada and recite them to us. He liked poetry and good literature and had a good knowledge of them. He used to accurately translate Kannada vachanas into Marathi. There might be a few grammatical errors here and there, but the gist was transported from one heart to another.

He rarely criticised anybody. I don’t think he had the time for that and neither the inclination. I once asked him, “Anna, you know so much about music; have learnt and contemplated so much on it. Who would you rank as a good musician, today?” Laughing out loud, he first tried to dodge my question. But when I persisted, he solemnly answered, “To be very honest Tai, forget about today. Even 50 years from now, if anything endures, it probably will be the music of Narayanrao Balgandharv and Begum Akhtar. The rest of us will be left behind.”

These words of Mallikarjun Mansur, the man who had devoted his entire life to Hindustani classical music, tell us not only of his acute perception, but also his ability to see through the socio-cultural change that was to mark the coming times.

People often like to indulge in tittle-tattle about the personal lives of singers, or for that matter, anybody famous. One gets to listen to a lot of gossip about Narayanrao Balgandharv and Gauharjaan. Narayanrao had married her and people never ceased to spread canards about this. Once in a baithak, somebody brought up this topic again and I shall never forget Anna’s rejoinder. Gauharjaan used to work in Anna’s elder brother’s theatre company. At that time, she and Balgandharv were still not acquainted. But even then, whenever she used to sit down for her riyaaz, she used to keep a photo of Narayanrao before her. Such was the fervor of this woman’s love and she got the reward of that love from her beloved. Who are we to comment on this? It is not proper for us to gossip like this and it is not even true. “I have seen it with my own eyes, Tai. Rarely has anybody loved another with such intense devotion. It is not easy. Ordinary mortals cannot do it.”

On many instances like this, one got the feeling that Anna believed that the strength of human relationships had the power to transcend differences in caste, creed and religion. But why banish your only son because he married out of caste? This was an unsolvable riddle. And whenever I felt bold enough to interrogate Anna on this, I only got a half-hearted and disappointing response.

I remember another occasion when I got just such a response from him. Though, the issue this time was not personal. Bhopal’s Bharat Bhavan had organised a music programme and a lecture demonstration with him. Quite a few of us friends went there on this occasion. The music session was excellent, as expected; but even the lecture was engaging. Anna spoke frankly and thoughtfully about a lot of issues and one got a sense of how thoroughly he had imbibed his music. I often used to ask my questions to Anna at home. But the session that day was so engrossing that I found myself asking him a question on raags and their time of singing. Typically, every raag is classified as belonging to a certain part of the day and should be sung during that time only. Many singers choose their compositions in a mehfil based on this classification. Did Anna believe in this timing schema? If so, how can he explain radio recordings, which are done during the night, but relayed the next morning or afternoon on the radio? Such was my query. The idea that one particular raag has to sung at a particular time does not hold much meaning today, he said. It is only a tradition to be followed.

I carried on, “But if this tradition is so meaningless, shouldn’t stalwarts like you give it up?” To that he retorted, “Those who want to give it up, are free to do so”. Wasn’t this a way of evading my question? But this response got a lot of laughs from the audience and that’s that.

Sometimes, a true rebel finds the strength to break traditions and adopt something new. Sometimes, traditions evolve and change on their own, but at times, out of inertia, they simply keep going on. Which raag should be sung at what time of the day has no real significance. None of this has any impact on one’s musical journey, or the heights one wants to achieve in music. What matters is how you are able to establish the raag, give it your unique flavour and character, and see it flower into something that gives ecstasy both to you, and your listeners. Kumar was a rebel in this field. He crafted his own new space, but even he did not pick up this gauntlet regarding raags and their timings. The fact that they do not give so much importance to it perhaps implies that it is an insignificant issue. I was left thinking maybe insisting on an answer was my idiosyncrasy.

Anna was not a rebel. But his adherence to tradition was not blind. It was simple and straight-forward, but he had thought it through, meticulously. Whenever he used to sing, he was attired in a dhoti, coat, and a topi. It had nothing to do with grooming or color coordination. But it was always neat. Maybe not freshly ironed, but never grimy. Bespectacled, with forehead anointed with ash, it was amusing to see him like this. At times, it was also funny. But the moment he started to sing, it was as if a magician had turned his wand and the scene changed instantly. It did not take long for him to establish his mastery. His first note hit the ears and one got into a trance. In his baithak, he transported the audience to a realm where he was immersed in sculpting a stunning musical sculpture, in which they poured their eyes, their ears, their life. The audience was a witness to an enchanting spectacle in which this was brought to life before their eyes. To see him sing, then, was to have a “darshan”. One could never take one’s eyes away from him. Notes fine as silken skeins, pure and gleaming like pearls, his persona transformed into something divine. The musical notes seemingly besotted by him. That was not surprising. He enticed them like a lover – slowly, sweetly and intensely. When this chase reached its pinnacle, the breath-taking appreciation from the audience and Anna’s uproarious acknowledgment of it was a sight to behold. A living spring of euphoria flowed in that musical panorama. One saw the creation of music in Kumar’s baithak; but in Anna’s baithak it was as if a musical treasure trove was being prised open before them. He had you beholden, from the beginning to the end. Anna was an orthodox follower of his Lingayat Math’s and Guru’s customs, rituals and conventions. But his love-affair with music was not just transcendental. Kavan des gayo, Mat ja jogi, Hi raat savat bai, or Neend na aayi – when one listens to a number of such compositions, you realise not only is this man a true devotee of musical notes, but he is their supreme lover.

How did Anna achieve this? How did he hone his craft? Or for that matter, how do the great achieve greatness? One is perhaps born with some of it. Then there is hard work, struggle, ambition, a burning desire, and the direction shown by one’s guru, which Anna calls “guru krupa”. We got to hear a lot from Anna about his musical journey as a disciple. With one exception, all these memories only reflected Anna’s ardent adoration and gratitude towards his gurus.

And what was that exception? Not that it was done on purpose. He had gone through that experience at a raw age when he was passing through trying times and perhaps that is why he could not easily forget it.

Once when we went to Dharwad, we visited Kundgol. Anna too accompanied us. There is a musical soiree on the eve of vocalist Sawai Gandharva’s death anniversary there, every year. It is perhaps celebrated even now. There is a grand feast for two to three days. Musicians from all over gather there and do their bit. Music lovers from nearby areas congregate. When we went, there was a huge crowd. Anna also sang for a while, and we returned.

On our way back, I told him “Anna, there was a big crowd, but absolutely undisciplined. People were going about their own business in between.”

“Well you see Tai. People are getting free food for two to three days, so the poor gather around the place. What is their interest in music?”

“You must be going there every year, to sing, is it not so?”

“No...no..today was my first time.”

We were a bit taken aback. But on our next journey, we came to know the reason.

Anna had started singing at a very young age. He picked it up from wherever he could. He was keen to have a guru teach him systematically and so he approached Sawai Gandharva. Sawai Gandharva declined to take him as a disciple. Maybe he had his reasons. In those days, accepting disciples meant that you had to oversee their upkeep and have them live with you. Perhaps that was not possible for Sawai Gandharva. Who knows the true reason? But Anna felt that since he was a Lingayat, this Brahmin guru refused to accept him as a disciple. Such casteism is par for the course in our country. In Belgaum, on the eve of Shivratri, a Vaishnav friend of ours called us for dinner. It was a veritable feast. We initially thought that this was in our honour. Later to our dismay, we realised this was a ritual of Vaishnavite one-upmanship over the Shaivaites who have to undergo a fast that day. Such boundaries like the Hindu-Muslim religious boundaries as also caste-boundaries are rigorously observed. L­ike it is some kind of a solemn duty. So, in all probability, Anna was right. But he could never forget this jibe, and despite Kundgol being so close to Dharwad, he had never visited that musical event. That day along with us, he merely got a formality done. There was no heart in his singing.

Anna scrupulously upheld his duties as a householder. His daughters were taught, and their marriages duly solemnised. His son had studied well. It is only now that the financial situation of singers has improved a bit. A lot of musicians of Anna’s generation had to spend their life in penury. Regardless of that, Anna looked after his family’s personal needs and his family took utmost care of his. But in other aspects, it was a completely different matter. Once, in his Dharwad house, Anna opened his cupboard to show us something. A huge amount of paper and letters haphazardly stacked in there came tumbling down. When I reached out to put them back, I realised some of those letters were not even opened. Perhaps they came in Anna’s absence and were kept in the cupboard and forgotten. Some of these were invitations for music concerts, providing handsome emoluments. Alas, timelines long gone past. Sheer negligence had made him lose so much money. Tch..tch-ing his regret, he guffawed out loud and that was the end of the matter.

Once from our home in Pune, when we had dropped him off for his journey to Mumbai, I asked him “Do you have your ticket with you?” “Yes” he retorted and out came from his coat pocket, a clump of half a dozen tickets, all disparate times and places. In that bunch, there were several Pune-Mumbai tickets as well. I searched for the right one and handed it over to him and discarded the rest. That again got the usual chortle of laughter from him. At that time, I could not help but think – couldn’t at least one of his many daughters take care of these mundane requirements? But that was out of the question. I do not think Anna ever felt that need, and neither did it limit him in any way. Nor did music lose anything. Every person has his own horizon, his inner boundaries. What is the horizon, after all? It is the outermost limit of one’s sight. Anna’s mind’s eye could perceive far and wide, touching musical infinity. He could see each note, as is, in its appropriate place, like a self-illuminated star. But his worldly eyes could not fathom the untidy clothes, money and the unopened letters clamped in the cupboard. Their horizon was bounded by the taans of his tanpura. The land beyond that was not his to see.

When we came to know of Anna being struck down with a malignant form of cancer, we rushed to Dharwad to see him. On the journey, we were listening to cassette tapes of Anna. My mind was a tumult of memories. While I was listening, a memory of Bhausaheb Dixit suddenly came to me.

Dixit was responsible for our first meeting with Anna, and Dixit passed away as he was listening to Anna. He had urged his brother to listen to a music cassette of Anna’s that he much adored. At a particular point, he told his brother “Now, notice how taking his flight, he comes back to the sam. Tat dha, tat dha, tat...” And on the third dha, Dixit left his worldly abode. All very inexplicable. A loved one left us that way. Another loved one was on his way.

Once on his way back to Dharwad, Naralkar, who was dropping him off at the station, asked him “Anna, when will we see you again?”

“Oh, I will be back on November 10. I have a concert on the 11th.”

“Why 10th? Why don’t you come earlier, on the eighth?”

“Why? What is so special about eighth?”

“Oh. Bhai’s 60th birthday is on the eighth.”

“Is that so? Then I will come on the eighth.”

And Anna was there, early on sixth morning. We kept receiving calls from the midnight of the seventh. People’s enthusiasm was hardly letting us get any sleep that night. We got up before 3am. Around 3.30am, as we were having our tea, Anna started singing Bhairav along with his tea. He gave the thekas on our dining table and sang for around 30-45 minutes. This was Anna’s gift to Bhai on his birthday.

“Anna, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Go ahead,” and he laughed aloud, as usual.

This laughter was unique, his alone. It always accompanied him. In good times and in bad.

“Anna, every singer has his unique sa. A, G, G+ whatever. Now when a singer begins with his sa, how is it that listeners are able to surmise which raag is he going to sing? Can one recognise a raag only on the basis of sa?”

“Yes Tai. When that sa comes, it does not come, naked or unadorned. It is dressed in the outfit of that particular raag. Then one can easily recognise it.”

Once, we had organised three consecutive concerts of Anna’s in Pune – morning, evening and night for a select audience of about 600-700. Anna had dropped by a day or two earlier. He had chosen his tabalji and accompanists. All arrangements were on the dot. But Anna seemed anxious. I was a light sleeper, and that night I woke up in the middle of the night to see Anna restlessly pacing up and down.

“What happened Anna? Do you want something?”

“No, Tai. You go back to sleep.”

When I came back after some time, Anna was still awake.

“Anna, shall I make some tea?”

“Why do you worry? This is not the time for tea. You go back to sleep.”

“What does it matter, Anna.” So I prepared some tea and both of us sat together, sipping it.

“Anna, are you not feeling well? You look worried.”

“Che, che, Tai. Nothing is the matter. Everything is fine. But you all have organised such a big music programme. Everything should go well.”

And he laughed as usual. But his tone and face looked perturbed.

All those three concerts were excellent. Those who had the fortune to listen to him that day felt blessed. People still reminisce about it. That night, Anna slept like a log. So much so that we were worried when he did not wake up as usual the next morning. Anna must have done hundreds of baithaks in his lifetime. But he still felt the pressure of the three baithaks that we, with our blind faith in him, had gone around organising. Later, he told us as much.

We reached Dharwad. He had recuperated from a massive kidney ailment, just a few months ago. He had even resumed giving musical concerts. However, we could see that he had become weak, when he came to Pune. But on this, perhaps our last visit, we could not face him. He was in the throes of death. He had not been informed of his cancer, but he was sure that these were to be his last days. He had expressed his desire to go to his Math and sing there for a few minutes. His voice had become so frail that the singing could not be recorded.

“Anna, what did you sing that day in the math?”

He told us about that Kannada verse of Basaveshwara, and its Marathi meaning.

“The moon and the sea are drawn to one other. Their bond impregnable. Yet the sea can do nothing to the moon when he is assailed by rahu and ketu; So is the moon helpless, when the sea is struck by storms. In the end, nobody can come to one’s aid. This is a solitary journey.”

We spent a lot of time with Anna that time, making sure his days would be peaceful. We met all his loved ones and his doctors. We tried to understand everything. That this would be our last visit was the only message we got.

When I first met Anna in Delhi, I gave him my namaskar. After that, we found no occasion for keeping such formalities between us. That day, when I left his home, I folded my hands and mentally did my last namaskar. Anna too folded his hands, took them to his forehead and closed his eyes. This was his first and last namaskar to me. Not namaskar, but Ram-Ram. There was another thing unusual about that visit. Anna had not laughed, not even once. The sound that had become frail that day in the math, while singing Basaveshwara’s rachana, had muted his laughter. But the meaning of Basaveshwara’s rachana continued to dance before my eyes.

Vasantaa left, Kumar left and now Anna also left. Leaving behind the treasure of their music. Singers depart and their songs remain. They will have newer versions. But the music in our home has died. And with it, the sounds of Anna’s childlike uproarious laughter.

The Marathi original of this essay is from Soyare Sakal (1998). Sunita Deshpande (1926-2009) was a Marathi writer and essayist. Translated from the Marathi original by Rajalaxmi Kamath. The copyright of the Marathi original is held by IUCAA, Pune.