The Hindu Business Line : <I>When Shehnai silenced the Sitar </I>

The instruments were handled by two geniuses — Ustad Bismillah Khan and Pandit Ravi Shankar. The occasion was the inauguration of the Pravasi Bharatiya Divas (Festival of NRIs) at Delhi's Pragati Maidan a few years ago. When the Ustad received a louder and longer applause, a smiling Ravi Shankar also joined in, receiving in return a graceful "aadab" (respectful acknowledgement) from the shehnai maestro. The two Bharat Ratnas at once elevated the mood of the audience to a sublime level that admitted only one winner — the music itself.

Ustad Bismillah Khan is a legend who made the shehnai synonymous with his name. Nearly 60 years later, the nation still remembers the sweet strains of his shehnai rendered from the ramparts of Delhi's Red Fort on the dawn of India's Independence, as Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru unfurled free India's flag. Since then, many All India Radio stations have played his shehnai as inauguration of the day's programme.

Indeed, the sound of his shehnai music has become part of the national consciousness. This is perhaps the single greatest achievement of the maestro, who died in his beloved Varanasi, early on August 21. He was 90.

Music lovers insist that the Ustad enjoyed spiritual experiences, playing at the temples of Varanasi on the banks of the Ganges.

"Idhar Ganga bahti hai kya?" (Does the Ganges flow here?) the Ustad asked friends and sponsors in the United States when they offered him money and migration. His response, revealing his reverence and love for the Ganges, sacred to the Hindus, epitomised the composite culture the Muslim musician imbibed and exuded all his life.

He was an ardent devotee of Saraswati too, the Hindu goddess of music. He once remarked: "Music, sur, namaaz. It is the same thing."

On his first meeting with film music composer, A. R. Rahman, the maestro fondly asked: Where were you? So far I have just heard of you, it is for the first time that I am meeting you. Nevertheless, I take your name five times a day during my prayers!"

The maestro never knew a life of comfort commensurate with his fame and worldwide concerts. He supported a joint family of close to 70 members, including nine sons and daughters, and many grandchildren. After he lost his wife he began to call his shehnai "my Begum."

He lived till his end at a dilapidated house and always travelled by the cycle-rickshaw. He exuded old world charm as he smiled with his only two remaining lower teeth, acknowledging greetings from visitors.

The nation will miss both the shehnai and the smile.

(A former Deputy Editor of PTI, the writer is a New Delhi-based freelance journalist.

Feedback can be sent to rajamani_rc@yahoo.co.uk)

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