Writing a Biography
Author:AmbikaSirkar
Evening. It was nearing five. Finishing her tea, Tarabai got up, pressing a painful knee with one hand. She stood gazing out of the window. The long sloping road was crowded with buses and cars. The noise of the traffic drowned the sound of the sea beyond the parapet wall. Tarabai thought to herself how nothing had remained as it had been fifty years ago. Even the seemingly unchanging sea had changed. Waves that had lashed at the parapet wall only to recede an inch or two had now receded quite a distance. The sound of the sea, which she could once hear day in and day out, was now audible only for an hour or so in the quiet of the early morning. Barring the monsoon months of June, July and August, when the combined commotion of wind, splashing rain and waves could be heard, the sea, like a giant crocodile attacked by human beings, had retreated. Despite her now impaired vision, its changed colour hurt Tarabai. Of course the sea does change its colour all the time -- pale blue-green in the morning, shining silver in the afternoon, crimson at sunset and inky-blue at night. But its characteristic colour always manifests itself from within all these colours. If it lost its clean colour it was only during the two months of monsoon till Coconut Day, when, due to constant churning, it looked opaque, angry, red. Otherwise, for the rest of the nine months its basic clean colour never changed. But now it wore the pale, yellowish colour of the skin of a chronic asthma patient gasping for breath. It had become dull and muddy.
Feeling the wrinkled skin of her hand, Tarabai wondered if, like her, the sea too had become an old man. What had become of its boon to remain young forever? Had it suffered the same fate as her own youthful dream of marriage?
Suddenly it occurred to her that she had been looking for something else and had ended up looking at the sea instead. Her habit of watching the sea in her spare time would not leave her.
She turned her gaze to the road, but despite her best efforts, she could not see the familiar figure of Bapu, slowly advancing, leaning on his stick. She could no longer be certain of what she saw. Nowadays there was always a watery film over her pupils. Occasionally, she would feel a tear trickle down her cheek. It was not as though she was fond of reading, but if she tried to read a book for even ten to fifteen minutes, her eyes would feel dry and start hurting her. Still, thanks to Lord Mangesha, she had not developed a cataract. She could manage with specs and there was no reason to complain. But because of her advancing age, her joints had started aching and her voice was no longer steady. Earlier, she had had to restrict learners clamouring to enroll for her singing classes; now she was left with just a few beginners. All the learners were from affluent families. They had enrolled their daughters or daughters-in-law more to show off TarabaiKankonkar’s label than for any real interest in music. They had neither haggled over fees, nor had they enquired about the progress of the pupil. They probably chose to enroll with this ageing “queen of melody” because it made better sense than to train under a male teacher or some young hard task-master of a female teacher. Only one of them had a natural, though marginal understanding of music. But she too probably felt tired of having to extract the right note from Tarabai’s now unsteady voice and reproduce it correctly. Earlier she would never have tolerated it if anyone missed as many sessions as this lot. They gave different excuses each time like, “My son had a fall, suffered a gash on the head,” “Guests arrived unexpectedly. I had to help my mother,” “I had my period, had cramps.” “A prospective groom was coming to approve of me in the evening” -- “But then you could have come in the morning” -- “But I had to make preparations for the evening.”
Tarabai thought to herself “Why single out students? Bapu too bunks on various pretexts such as -- ‘I have become too old, my B.P. has shot up, I suffer from gout; you have no idea how much my foot aches; it’s not just ordinary arthritis.’”
Tarabai thought, as if it was I who was after Bapu to write my biography. It was he who had insisted on it. “If Champabai’s not-so-gifted disciple could write reams and reams on her, why can’t I write your biography?” he had persisted. She had said “no” twice or three times. As a last resort, like old times, he had made a childish plea, “Baiji, if you don’t help me, then I’ll write from what I remember. Then don’t object and say -- “This did not happen” or “So and so never said this.” I’m not undertaking this task because I have nothing to do after retirement, and don’t know what to do with the time on my hands. Once through I’m going to publish it at my own expense. I’m not going to get any recognition either as a great writer, or as a music critic like your daughter. If the book is well received, it’s going to be you who will gain more fame.”
“But why would I want more fame? Am I going to give more concerts and earn newer titles? I was honoured with the “Padmashri” and the “PadmaBhushan” and I’m stepping closer to my grave. If anything, your writing might invite some controversy.”
“What controversy? Rubbish.”
“Suppose, after reading your book, people asked me to sing?”
“Would you? If people were to ask you to sing?”
“If I were to, I might find myself in the same state as Balgandharva who had to be propped up on the stage. And though he did not look good in Rukmini’s garb, beautiful notes issued from his throat, old age notwithstanding. With me it would only be a wheezing and a persistent cough.”
“Baiji, the writing and the publication of the biography will take two years at least. You have not sung anywhere in the last eight years and you had announced your retirement publicly. Are you really likely to get carried away and land yourself in any embarrassment just because of my book? I know you too well for that.”
Tarabai chuckled and said, “ Don’t say I haven’t sung in eight years. I coach girls every morning and I practise regularly.”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that kind of singing. You show them a note by shaking your head, or by raising an eye-brow or finger, and these gullible girls try to produce it.” This kind of arguing and counter-arguing went on for a while. Finally, she started to narrate the story of her life. The description of Goa had taken two or three sittings. Its description had begun on a quarrelsome note. Tarabai had opposed the description when Bapu first broached it.
“Bapu, everyone goes to Goa. Almost everyone has seen it. Why repeat the details?”
To this he had replied, “Our description of Goa should make more impact than the one at the beginning of Champabai’s book.”
Bapu had brought the book with him. He opened it and began to read, “Hers begins with Goa means Gomantak; how it came to be called Goa; Goa’s natural beauty, temples, its musical tradition, how the notes emanate from its very soil. And then goes on to explain how to reach Goa -- by train, boat, car; how long it takes to reach Goa by respective transportation, the places worth visiting on the way, Mandavi, Kalangood, Agwad Fort, Panaji; how they look while travelling by train, how one comes upon Doodhsagar waterfall and so on.” Bapu read out the longish descriptions mocking the write ups.
Then he said, “We are not going to describe Goa like this. Ours will be much better. Is this any description? These descriptions of road and waterways would befit any guidebook. I am going to describe Goa in such a manner that after reading those six or seven hundred words, the reader will end up straight in Goa.”
“Straight in Goa means where exactly? Like being air-dropped at Konkan by helicopter? In our front yard? But our home isn’t there anymore.”
“Don’t you make fun of me. How discouraging you are. Forget it. I shan’t write anything about Goa in front of you. I shall write it at home. I’m ready to forfeit even my name if the reader doesn’t get transported to Goa after reading it.”
“That’s how some people feel after reading an article on music -- they feel they have already heard it, don’t they?”
Bapu had finished his description of Goa within two days. His Goa was “rich and embellished with beautiful flora and fauna, embraced by the sea on all sides -- the fortunate Gomantak -- serpentine patterns of sand dotting its sea-shore, the white foam encrusted waves rushing forward laughingly to wipe it off, coconut trees standing tall in benediction, air laden with the aroma of beautifully golden ripe cashew fruit, the heady fragrance of bakul, surangi, mogra, madanban, jasmine, jai-jui, sonchapna wafted by the breeze, fish shining like silver brought to your door every morning! And the spicy exchange between the fisherwomen and customers over its quality and price.
The steady downpour in the rainy season, earth wrapping itself in a green shawl, embellished with green emeralds, the turquoise blue sea and its roar in the night, stars shining like diamonds in a clear sky.”
Bapu had done his best. But with the mention of emeralds, diamonds and blue gems, Tarabai got distracted. “How did I feel in Goa?” she wondered. She had spent the first fifteen years of her life there. She remembered Mai’s house at Konkan clearly -- the house, the front yard, trees lining the courtyard. A small village of forty or fifty houses. Just as a child feels happy with his head burrowing under his mother’s saree, she too must have found it happy and secure then.
But in subsequent years after coming to Mumbai, she never felt any yearning for Goa. Mumbai -- with its tall buildings, smooth tarred roads, trams, horse-driven carriages, cars running like squirrels, giant buses, lighting, the Taj Hotel, Rajabai Tower, the Gateway, Malabar Hill, the sea encircling it on all four sides, its sophistication, style and affluence.
She visited these places greedily again and again. She went on foot to the places closer to the house; to others in horse-driven carriages. She was fascinated by what she saw. She must have roamed about like that for about seven or eight months.
Narayandas had never objected to her love for roaming around in horse-driven carriages. Not even once did he crib about the amount of money she spent on roaming around. He took her out himself on many evenings. He never objected to her roaming on her own. Even if she went out alone in the afternoon he never complained. He was never suspicious even if she went out alone. If anyone did make a fuss, it was Mai, and she herself accompanied Tara on many occasions. But when she realized that there was no complaint from Narayan Das, she stopped. Shyamamawshi and Kalyani had also accompanied Mai to Mumbai. So she was able to see Mumbai without any difficulty, sometimes with Kalyani, sometimes on her own,.
It is no longer the same Mumbai anymore. It has become filthy. But then, what has remained the same? I myself, with my aging face, neck lined with creases, painful joints, have become a caricature of my former self. Was I like this in the past?
Despite her wandering mind, Tarabai had her gaze fixed on Bapu’s face. He did not notice her lack of response to his choicest jewels for a while. He was disappointed.
“Baiji, what are you thinking about? You are not paying any attention.”
“I am listening....”
Tarabai was gifted with a sharp memory. Not only could she remember musical notes, but she could also quote lines word for word. Now she quoted Bapu’s last long-winding, bejewelled sentence and he fell silent.
“After listening to your description if somebody wanted to visit Goa, he would require railway or boat time-tables and for that ChampabaiMadhavi’s book will come in handy. How do you like that?” Tarabai looked at Bapu teasingly. This annoyed Bapu.
“I have put in so much effort to write this and all you do is discourage me… I will tear off these pages.” He made as if to tear off the pages, but Tarabai stopped him. She knew, though, that Bapu was not going to do anything of the sort. He would have made thousands of excuses if anyone were to ask him to consider transferring even one of his emeralds in that bejewelled description from here to there. But Tarabairealised that she should not have teased him. It was not nice to push anybody to the brink.
After listening to Bapu’s description of Goa, Tarabai realized that though born in Goa, she had spent most of her life in Mumbai, so that Mumbai had become her home. Then why not include its description in the biography? When asked, Bapu replied, “People of Mumbai and Pune will read the book. We need the description of Goa for them.” So the description of Goa was final although she had not wanted it, while the description of the Old Bombay, which she had grown so fond of, was excluded. Even if Bapu were the writer of the biography, it was her biography. Shouldn’t it include what she wanted?
Her legs started to ache from her frequent trips to the window. Her eyes began to ache from scanning the road for Bapu. Finally, she sat down on the sofa. She felt disappointed at the thought that Bapu would probably not show up. Taking a clove from a small box, she put it into her mouth, and called to Laxmibai for more tea.
By the time the tea arrived, the doorbell rang. It was Bapu. She felt a sudden surge of energy on seeing him. Bapu too called for his cup of tea. Though his description of Goa had spoken of the harmonious, rhythmic tones of its people, his own voice was that of a demon.
Bapu said, “Let us begin at your birth.” Tarabai decided to drop the argument over the description of Goa, dismissing it as too trivial a matter to pursue. “Let us start. Take it down.”
“Tara was born in 1920 to Anjani who belonged to the community of Kalawantin in a small village called Kankon. Tara’s mother was not only beautiful but intelligent and wise. Tara was born when Anjani was thirty years old. In keeping with the custom, Anjani was initiated at the age of 15, but till she reached her thirties…”
“Baiji, why should we write about Mai’s initiation here? We will say you were born. That’s all!”
“But there is a reason why she decided to have a baby so late - when she was thirty, isn’t there? Shouldn’t we mention the reason?”
“What reason? Some women have children early, some late.”
“Bapu, you know the entire history; she was short of money, did not have any dependable patron and though she had not heard of family planning methods, she avoided pregnancy by using age-old methods. When Dada Sardesai became her patron, gave her money, gold, and a house, it was only then that she allowed me to be born. Isn’t that so?”
“But why write all this Baiji? I am not writing Mai’s biography, I’m writing yours. Mai must be applauded for her wisdom in training you to be a singer. Why go into this rigmarole?”
“Rigmarole? It is only because of Sardesai’sfavour that she started GopalraoTambe’s tuition for me when I was thirteen. He was paid Rs. 40/- per month. Forty rupees in those days.”
“You call that training? Didn’t it stop right away? Because of Gopalrao’s character?”
“Why do you say that? Despite the intermittent intervals due to his addiction to ‘feni,’ it lasted two full years.”
“All right, we will say that the training under the first master lasted for two years.”
“First master? Master! Meaning you don’t want to mention Gopalrao’s name? Isn’t that so?”
To this he responded dramatically, touching his ears with both hands, “Who said that?
One must mention the name of the master. So I will write that there was this gentleman called Gopalrao. He was a maestro. Little Tara got her basic training from him.”
“Basic training? So you don’t want anyone to infer that we are talking about GopalraoTambe? But why not? Let the poor soul get that much credit. Let me repay at least that much of my debt to him.”