Looking for Miss Sargam: Stories of Music and Misadventure

by Shubha Mudgal

And without further ado, she would begin talking: barking out orders to a junior; speaking in falsely respectful tones to an important caller; rolling her eyes heavenwards in exaggerated disgust talking to someone who was no longer useful but had to be suffered because you never knew…

So here she was with the Mohites, seated on the rug in their living room, with their daughter Sulabha singing Raag Bhupali to her. The little girl was tuneful and had been taught well by her mother, but as could be expected of any Indian child born and brought up in the United States, her American accent often stood out rather strongly in her Bhupali. ‘Itno joban purrr maan na curriye’ she sang earnestly, accompanied by a tanpura and tabla generated from an app on her Mum’s phone. The phone was connected to a bluetooth speaker which, sadly, amplified the tanpura and tabla sounds in a rather unflattering way. Bong bing binga, bong bing pinga, bong bing pinga, bong bing binga went the tabla mechanically, the sound distorted on being amplified. And the tanpuras hissed sibilantly like manic mosquitos swarming around the little singer.

This lady, Sharada, had been sent to Russia on tour by IAACE, and was made to sing alaaps for a fashion show in St. Petersburg where a designer was exhibiting lingerie and leather boots. Fearing that she would be blacklisted if she protested or refused to comply, Sharada had no option but to sing alaaps in Jaijaiwanti and Maru Bihag as terrifyingly tall, unsmiling models dressed in knee-length leather boots and lace underwear sashayed past her, occasionally striking a leather whip against their boots.

For today’s meeting, notepads and freshly sharpened pencils were ready and waiting for each attendee, along with a bottle of mineral water and a glass that was covered, in a nice old-world touch, with a beaded cloth.

He chose a seat in a corner of the room, where he hoped he could remain unnoticed; he did not wish to be a participant, only an observer. But the chair he had selected wanted only to be left alone. The moment he lowered himself into it, the chair let out a long, complaining fart. Startled and deeply embarrassed, he shot up, looked around and was grateful there was only one other person in the hall, an attendant at the other end of the room, polishing a door handle, who appeared not to have heard. Mrigo was reminded of a grand uncle, a safari-suited eminence who, in the middle of a conversation, would casually lean sideways on the sofa, lift an enormous buttock and release a loud and surprisingly tuneful fart. No one ever seemed to notice and the conversation continued without interruption. The one time that young Mrigo had giggled, the eminence had looked at him, laughed and said, ‘It is uttom baatkorm. Uttom sreni, my child. The highest category of farts, no smell at all. It is an art, comes with practice.’ Mrigo wasn’t sure people in this board room would appreciate the art. He walked to the opposite end of the room and found himself another chair. But this one complained in exactly the tone and register of the previous chair. ‘Uff!’ said Mrigo, and shot up again. This won’t do, he thought. He would just stand in his corner. Then two office assistants entered the room with piles of cushions and proceeded to place one on every rexine chair. ‘Bosho,’ said one of them to Mr...

He was genuinely deferential, and Daga’s affection seemed genuine too, if a little boarding-school.

But like, I saw you have a lot of guzzles on your catalogue.’

Little Mrigo started learning the sitar, and in a few years even his reticent, difficult-to-please guru had to admit—never in the boy’s presence, of course—that Mrigo’s talent for music was ‘awshaadhaaron’.

‘Your Ma’s migraine has made her blood pressure dangerously high,’ Baba said to the TV screen one evening.

Manzoor Ahmad ‘Rehmati’ stood on the pavement opposite one of the many mansions dotting the upmarket South Delhi locality he was visiting. He was dressed in a white silk kurta-pyjama that he had saved for just such an occasion, and shiny white faux leather sandals. The sandals were such a tight squeeze for his swollen feet—a condition that had troubled him for over a year now—that his heels jutted out over the back of the sandals, and the little toes on each of his feet sprang out disobediently from the front strap. But for that small imperfection, he was quite pleased with his appearance. He had even doused himself generously with a not too cheap imitation of Lucknow’s most popular brand of rose ittar. As he lifted a hand with henna stained nails to pat his oily hair into place, an array of silver and gold rings with bulbous, coloured stones gleamed in the late-morning sun.

Not only was he one of the country’s most highly decorated and star musicians, he also had considerable influence in political circles, having learnt very early in his career that an artiste desirous of popular and abiding success should never have political opinions, and should cultivate the powerful no matter which political party or business empire they belonged to.

You could be a dolt and still get a Padma award if the Ustad wanted you to get it. And if he so much as raised an eyebrow or frowned a little when an artiste’s name was mentioned in the selection committee, the Padma slipped out of the hapless artiste’s fingers, however meritorious he or she may be.

squirrelling away

He would have liked to have at least one solo album in the collection, but alas, no record label had agreed—it was an old prejudice; the harmonium had never been accorded any real respect in the classical world.