Sitar Maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar & Annapurna Devi

Sitar Maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar

Extracted from G.N. Joshi's book, "Down Melody Lane" (1984), pp 95-98
Pandit Ravi Shankar
The melodious strains of Ravi Shankar's sitar have carried Indian music across the seven seas. Ravi Shankar is now a world famous personality. His recitals in India and abroad draw huge crowds. Millions of fans gather to hear him. Films are being made about his life. Ravi Shankar had ridden the crest of popularity for over 30 years and this popularity shows no signs of abatement. This era in music could truly be called the Ravi Shankar era. He has contributed a golden page to the history of Indian classical music.
I met Ravi Shankar in 1940. He is about 10 years younger than me, and at that time he was in his twenties. Fair and slim, this curly haired youth worked with me in the studio for some time. Even in those early days his intelligence and dedication to music were apparent. I always felt that his tremendous creative ability was being wasted in the HMV studio and that he would soon do much better for himself. This was proved to be correct when, a few years later, Pandit Ravi Shankar's magnificent music conquered the world, and his fame reached great heights.
Pandit Ravi Shankar's father was an eminent barrister and a very high official in a princely state. Ravi Shankar had a happy childhood. His was a family of artists, and all his brothers have become famous in different artistic spheres. His eldest brother was the world renowned dancer Uday Shankar, the two other brothers Sachin Shankar and Rajendra Shankar are also very well known. Ravi Shankar studied music and learnt to play the sitar under the guidance of Ustad Allaudin Khan. His sangeet sadhana was as strenuous and gruelling as the tapasya (penance) done in the olden days by ascetics seeking knowledge in the ashrams of their gurus. Living with Ustad Allaudin Khan and pursuing his study, Ravi Shankar had to undergo rigorous trials. The Ustad was a difficult master. At times Ravi Shankar was even subjected to physical punishment. Coming as he did from an affluent and very highly placed family, it was very difficult for him to bear the hard work and humiliating treatment.
One day he tried to run away from the guru's home. A friend, however, brought him back from the station.
This friend was the Ustad's now-famous son, Ali Akbar Khan. There's an interesting story about this incident and curious readers are referred to Ravi Shankar's autobiography "My Music, My Life".
The next morning Ustad Allaudin Khan came to know of Ravi Shankar's attempt to escape. The Ustad was so upset at this that he burst into tears and embraced his pupil. Ustad Allaudin Khan not only imparted his treasure of knowledge to this favourite disciple, but in addition bestowed upon him the hand of his daughter Annapurna in marriage.
Although Ustad Allaudin Khan was a Muslim by birth, his general behaviour, his style of living and his dress were those of an orthodox Hindu. I had the opportunity to meet Allaudin Khan and to observe him closely when I visited Jodhpur with Ravi Shankar on an invitation from the maharaja. I first saw him in the early hours of the morning. He was wearing a brahminic style dhoti and was offering puja to Laxmi and Saraswati. He looked exactly like one's concept of a pious freshly bathed learned brahmin scholar of vedic times.
When Ali Akbar Khan and Ravi Shankar combined their skills at mehfils and on records, and presented their artistic craftmanship on the sarod and sitar, they received tremendous ovations. In search of wider audiences they proceeded to Europe from where, encouraged by their success, they went on to America. Their tremendous popularity in America induced them to stay there to try new experiments and set new trends in music. They have both spent the greater part of their last few years outside India, and, in their separate ways won countless fans through their concerts. Pandit Ravi Shankar started a music school, the Kinnara school, at Los Angeles in California, but he very recently closed it and has returned to India with the intention of starting an Ashram in the holy city of Varanasi. Ali Akbar, however, has decided to stay on in San Rafael, to coach Americans in the art of playing Indian classical music.
In his efforts to induce Western listeners to appreciate and enjoy Indian music, Ravi Shankar adopted a technique of presentation different from the old traditional style. Naturally there arose the fear that Indian tradition and prestige of Indian music might suffer in the process. Critics accused Ravi Shankar of polluting the high and chaste standard of presentation and even feared that the purity of ragas was at stake. It is, however, true that from the point of view of acquainting Western listeners with Indian music and training them to listen to and enjoy the artistic beauty of our music, the method and course adopted by Ravi Shankar was the correct one. Through his novel technique of presentation, he taught Western listeners what to look for in our music for real appreciation and enjoyment. Sitars, which sell moderately well in India, were exported in thousands to America and other Western countries. This proved the popularity and success of Ravi Shankar. In 1969, he was cited as 'Musician of the Year' by one of the leading organs of America's musical industry, Billboard Magazine.
Enticed by Ravi Shankar and his sitar, George Harrison of the famous group, the Beatles, came to Bombay some years ago. While he was there he gave a demonstration of Indian music in our studio, and I was witness to the miraculous achievement of Pandit Ravi Shankar.
In his never ending quest for novel ideas, and to successfully arrange a meeting between the music of the East and West, Ravi Shankar made an LP record entitled 'Sitar Concerto' supported entirely by a Western orchestra in London. This record will undoubtedly be a great asset in considerably increasing the interest of Western listeners in Indian music. I, however, honestly feel that such a fusion of two styles so different from each other will never hold lastingly together.
The classical nature of Ravi Shankar's sitar playing has remained pure and unaffected, inspite of his having stayed abroad for several years. He has mastered every aspect of sitar playing such as alap, jod, gat, zala, etc. During the alap movement he reveals the magnificent structure of a raga in a delightfully elaborate style. The jod and gat, that follow the alap movement, are so resplendent with the remarkable display by his artistic nimble fingers, that the audience remains completely hypnotized and spellbound. Inspite of the great success that has come his way Ravi Shankar has remained a very humble person.
Apart from his sitar playing Ravi Shankar has won a big name in other fields of music too. For a few years he conducted the orchestra in All India Radio, and at that time he made recordings of ragas presented in an entirely novel and unique way. He scored the background music for several Hindi films with great success. The films Kabuliwala and Pather Panchali need special mention in this connection. More creditable still is the fact that he is the first ever Indian artist to be selected to provide music for western films. Fame, honour and titles of every kind have been showered upon the great maestro. In 1957, at the Berlin film festival, there was conferred upon him the prestigious 'Silver Bear' award for the background music of Kabuliwala. The Indian government has already honoured him with the Padmabhushan.

(Baba mentioned below is Ustad Allaudin Khan, Pandit Ravi Shankar's guru and the father/guru of Ustad Ali Akbar Khan. Uday was Uday Shankar, the famous dancer and Ravi's elder brother) Also posted to rec.music.indian.classical. ===============================================================
From: My Music My Life by Ravi Shankar (1968) pps 70-74
.....The day came when we were due to sail, and we all felt the sadness of the departure. My mother, who had come to Bombay to see us off, was going to remain in India, and already, she was feeling the lone- liness of our absence. Somehow, she and I both had the premonition that we might not see each other again. While we stood on the pier, getting ready to go aboard the ship, she took my hand and put it in Baba's hand and told him, "I'm not going with you, and I don't know if I'll ever see my child again, so please take him and consider him as your own son." We all had tears in our eyes as we said goodbye, and as it happened, it was the last time I saw my mother.
Baba stayed with our troupe for nearly a year, and during all those months, I was his guide, interpreter, helper, and special companion. I suppose he missed Ali Akbar very much, and so he gave to me all the love and affection that would have gone to his son. While we were traveling, especially, I used to take care of Baba, finding the right restaurants and the proper kind of food for him. As a devout Muslim, he does not eat pork; but, like a Hindu, he does not eat beef either. One day, I remember, I wanted to do something special to please him, and recalling that he occasionally enjoyed smoking, I went out and bought him a pipe and pouch for tobacco and a lighter. When I presented the gift to him, instead of being pleased, he flared up in one of his unreasonable, furious angers. "Have you come to do the mukhagni with this?" he demanded. (The mukhagni according to Hindus is the ceremony of placing the first fire in the mouth of a dead man on the funeral pyre and is per- formed by the eldest son.) "I'm not one of those gurus you can buy," he raged.
But most of the time, he was very gentle with me. He knew how serious I was about learning instru- mental music, and I got him to begin teaching me the basics of sitar and voice. Sometimes, he would be- come upset and grow angry when I was learning, because, although I was a good student, he felt that dance was uppermost in my thoughts. It angered and hurt him that I should be "wasting my musical tal- ent" and living in glitter and luxury. Baba insisted that this was no way to learn music from him, not in these surroundings, and he swore I would never go through the discipline and master the technique of the sitar. Tauntingly, he called me a "butterfly" and made some very cruel remarks about my constant girl- chasing, my dandy tastes in clothing, and all my other interests outside music - painting, writing, and reading. He often said, "Ek sadhe sab sadhe, sab sadhe sab jaye," which means if you do one thing properly and very well, then all other things will come easily later, but if you start with too much, you end up with nothing.
All the same, Baba enjoyed teaching me and I knew it. When he was nice to me, as he usually was, I learned very quickly and well, but when he was angry, I got stubborn, thick-headed, and dull and refused to learn. It must have been because I had never been scolded by anyone, even as a little child.
In the summer of 1936, we spent a few months at Dartington Hall, in Devonshire, England, a beautiful, open place, where Uday planned to work on a few new ballets. I had a great deal of time to pratice on the sitar and have lessons with Baba. This was the first time I played scales and exercises and not just whatever pleasing melodies came into my head, and all summer I worked on the exercises and fixed com- positions and learned many songs. Inside me, I sensed something new and very exciting; I felt that I was coming close to music and that this music is what I was meant to devote my life to. But then in the fall, Baba had to leave us a bit earlier than had been expected and go back to India. At the time, there was a great turmoil brewing inside me - sometimes I thought I would continue with my dancing and become a truly great performer; everyone said I was well on my way. And then something within me would pull me the other way and say music, music. For many months I was torn between staying with Uday's troupe and giving up everything and going off with Baba to learn the art of music. In a way, it was unfortunate for me that Baba left so soon. Had he been with us just another month or so, I might have come to a decision sooner about my musical dilemma. Baba often repeated to me before he left that, although I had much talent and he would love to teach me, it would be possible for me to learn with him only if I could give up the sparkle and easy fame of my artist's life in Europe and come to the little town of Maihar, where he lived, and spend many years with him. And often, too, he expressed serious doubt that I would ever be able to take myself away from the glamorous life in the West.
When Baba left us, for some reason, I went back more strongly than ever to dancing and received much praise for my efforts, and I even put aside the sitar in favor of a sarod. I was soon able to perform on the sarod with our ensemble and also did some sitar solos, for, in the year with Baba, I had learned enough technique to understand what I was doing and had absorbed enough to use what I had been taught. Baba had encouraged me with the sitar because I was already acquainted with it and knew how to handle it a little, but when he left, I picked up the sarod, because his own playing of it had impressed me so much and I wanted to imitate him.
THE LONG ROAD TO MAIHAR
It was a year and a half before I saw Baba again, and throughout that time I was filled with worries and questions and indecision, and there was really no one I could talk to about it. Uday was quite convinced that I should keep up dancing as my primary interest, but he thought a few months with Baba wouldn't do me any harm. At this time, Uday was planning to disband the troupe and establish his center for the performing arts in India. He thought I could get a solid musical background with Baba, then come back and assist him at the center.
We finished our last tour and the troupe returned to India in May, 1938. While we were still in Paris, in the fall of 1936, a telegram arrived from India informing us of the death of our mother. A small house had just been completed for her in the village of my maternal grandfather near Benares, and at the time, two of my older brothers were with her. The news greatly saddened us, and me especially, because I had seen her so little since she returned to India in 1932. We had always been extremely close and had been able to speak very freely to each other. So, when we came back to India in 1938, I went straight to this little house of hers.
Back in India, with no immediate plans, I thought of a religious event which, for lack of time and op- portunity, I had neglected for many years; and decided this was the time to go through with it. This is the sacred-thread ceremony that initiates a young Brahmin boy into the religion. Usually it is performed between the ages of seven and twelve, and although I was much older than that, I wanted to have the ceremony performed. In the month of May, my head was shaved, and I prepared for the initiation into Brahminism. Each initiate must spend a few weeks or even longer living like a monk, eating special food, and abstaining from all material things. I spent nearly two months living this way, free of worldly matters, before I returned to my normal life.
Before we came back from Europe, I had been secretly corresponding with Baba, who again told me he would be happy to have me learn from him, if I could abandon my fancy ways and come to Maihar, not just for a few months, but to stay. I said nothing to Uday about this correspondence, but he promised me that I could go and stay with Baba while he looked for a site for the cultural center.
When my religious duties were over, I prepared to leave for Maihar. It was about a day's journey away, and Rajendra accompanied me to the village on a day in July. As we traveled, I was all in a turmoil inside. I felt as though I were committing suicide and knew that I would be reborn, but had no way of knowing how the new life would be. I was ex- tremely nervous and afraid of Baba's legendary tem- per, having seen a few small samples of it when he was with the troupe. Hundreds of doubts swept over me, and I wondered if I would be able to stay and go through all the discipline, because I knew very well my own sentimentality and my inability to bear a harsh word from anyone. And although I myself had made the decision to go to Maihar, I felt like a lamb being led to the butcher. When I arrived, Baba was really shocked to see me so transformed. My head was still shaven, and I wore simple clothes of very coarse material. With me I had brought one tin suit- case with a few belongings and two blankets with a pillow rolled up inside them. I had changed myself to the opposite extreme from the boy Baba had known in Europe, partly because I sincerely felt that I had to give up a great deal if I wanted to devote myself to music, and partly because I felt this new self would please Baba. In a way, there was some play-acting on my part, leaving behind my dandy habits and living as I thought I should. But I could see right away that Baba was pleased with me.
I went and stayed in the little house next to Baba's, and in the beginning it was very difficult for me. Maihar was just a small village, and it was very quiet. Alone at night in my house, I was frightened when I heard the howling of the jackals and wolves nearby, and the deep croaking of the frogs and all the racket of the crickets. After eight years of luxurious living in Europe, it took me months to accustom myself to sleeping on the cot made of four pieces of bamboo tied together with coconut rope. Every morning, I remember, a maidservant used to come in very early to tidy up and put the water on for tea and prepare a little breakfast. After I'd been in Maihar for some time, another student came and stayed with me, but Baba beat him on the second or third day and he ran away. At least thirty different boys came to share the little house with me, but none of them ever stayed longer than a week or ten days because they could not bear Baba's temper and strict discipline.
''GO - GO AND BUY BANGLES !''
I was quite lucky to have already spent a year with Baba when he was traveling with Uday's troupe. In that time I had gotten to know him quite well - all his little weaknesses and the peculiarities of his na- ture. Some of these poor boys who came to Maihar had no idea how to interpret Baba's moods. Normally, he was the humblest, gentlest person imaginable, filled with vinaya, like a devout follower of Vishnu. But often, when he started teaching, he turned into a violent, irascible follower of Shiva and would not- tolerate one little slip from the student. He even used to scold the maharaja who employed him! I really have the record, though. Baba never once struck me or even raised his voice to me. Well, just one time.
Once, when I had first come to him and he was teaching me an exercise, I was not able to play it correctly. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "You have no strength in those wrists. Da, da, da," he cried, as he smacked my hands. Well, I had been trying my best, and I felt terrible that he should be angry with me. From my childhood, no one had ever spoken angrily to me, although I was quite spoiled and sometimes behaved badly. So when Baba raised his voice to me, I began to get angry myself, rather than frightened. "Go," he taunted me, "go, go and buy some bangles to wear on your wrists. You are like a weak little girl! You have no strength. You can't even do this exercise" That was enough for me. I got up and went to the house next door where I had been staying, packed my bedding and belongings, marched off to the rail- road station, and bought a ticket home. I had just missed a train and had to wait a while for the next one. In the meantime, Ali Akbar came running up and, seeing my bags, asked what happened. "I won't stay," I told him. "He scolded me today." Ali Akbar looked at me incredulously and asked if I were mad. "You are the only person he has never laid a hand on. We're all amazed by it. Why, do you know what he has done to me? He's tied me to a tree every day for a week and beaten me and even refused me food. And you run away because he gives you a little scolding!" Adamantly I insisted, "No, I will leave on the eve- ning train." Ali Akbar persuaded me to go back to the house with him, and I temporarily set my bag down again in my room. By then, he had told his mother what happened, and she told Baba. Ali Akbar came to tell me they wanted me to have lunch with them, and when I went into the house, Ma (Ali Akbar's mother) said to me, "Come. You are leaving soon, but just go and sit with your Baba for a few minutes." I went over to him and did a pranam, and I saw that he was cutting out a photograph of me and putting it into a frame. Neither of us said



THE UNTOLD STORY OF PANDIT RAVI SHANKAR :

ANNAPURNA DEVI :

Daughter of a sarod maestro, wife of perhaps the greatest sitar player ever, and herself the only female `surbahar' player in India - Annapurna Devi makes the perfect subject for a harmonious biography.

The result of author Swapan Kumar Bondyopadhyay's efforts over 11 years, "An Unheard Melody - Annapurna Devi: An Authorised Biography", strikes a poignant note via a lively narrative.

"I have no desire to create, nor is the book meant to be, what is officiously called an authoritative biography," Bondyopadhyay writes in the preface.

"At best, my book is a search for Annapurna. It is a search for the elusive musician and her contributions to the rich heritage of Hindustani classical music."




The first authorised biography of Annapurna Devi - the first wife of Pandit Ravi Shankar, daughter of Baba Allaudin Khan and sister of Ali Akbar Khan - traces the life of this accomplished artist from Maihar (Madhya Pradesh) to Mumbai, through Delhi and Kolkata.

Peppered with photographs from Annapurna's early years with her father and husband, the 190-page book, divided into sections according to phases in Annapurna Devi's life, has been published by Roli.

"Though it is difficult to find out whether she actually played better than Ravi Shankar, a look at the photographs of the mehfils (audiences) in which Annapurna played show her totally absorbed in her playing," writes the author.

"Her eyes are closed and she seems totally cut off from the world, with Ravi Shankar looking admiringly at her. The body language expresses it all."

Though a renowned musician in her own right (she is the only female surbahar - older and heavier version of the sitar - player in the country), Annapurna Devi has led a reclusive life and stayed away from public performances for several years.

In this biography, she talks frankly about her turbulent marriage to Ravi Shankar, the death of their son Subho, her father's legacy, and her life as a student and teacher.

"Ravi Shankar wondered why people did not accept that it was possible to love more than one woman at a time. He could do it. He had learnt from his own life that love was of different kinds - love for one's wife, love for a friend and love for the other woman," the book says.

"Each love was complementary to another. It was a search for fulfilment. It was a pity that Annapurna failed to appreciate this. She was an artiste with a large heart, so why was she so guarded in matters of love?"

While writing the book, the author did not restrict himself solely to his subjects' point of view.

Drawing on interviews with Annapurna Devi and her family members, admirers, critics and students, Bandyopadhyay offers an absorbing portrait of a brilliant individual who shuns public performances, devoting her time instead to music, students and to keeping her father's legacy alive.

"Considering the long and torturous period of its gestation, now at the time of sending the book to the press I feel happy and relieved like a mother after confinement," writes Bondyopadhyay.

Despite her iconic status in Indian classical music, details of Annapurna's life are shrouded in mystery. Though she is a true guru to her students, to others she is an eccentric recluse or simply too strong-minded.

"This book offers a glimpse into her life, not to reveal or to shock but to set the record straight - her turbulent years with Ravi Shankar, the death of her only son, her single-minded pursuit of music and a life in seclusion," writes Bondyopadhyay.

--Indo-Asian News Service