She leaves behind the gift of melody
By Chetna Banerjee

IT is as if a light has burnt brilliantly awhile and then flickered out of sight, leaving a cloak of darkness and an intense after-glow of warmth.

That is how I can best describe the recent passing away of Lata Sathe — a leading light in the music and intellectual circles of the region and a selfless social worker. This 60-plus Maharashtrian spread so much sunshine in her lifetime that even though she has moved out of the orbit of the living — plunging her near and dear ones into the darkness of grief and gloom — the sheer radiance of her being lingers on. The warmth of her memory mellows the emotional chill that her loss induces.

It was around this time six years ago, in 1995, that the people of Chandigarh — to whom she gave the gift of melody for 14 long years — bid a fond adieu to her when she shifted to her new house in Gurgaon.

Now, she is given another farewell, this time a tearful and final one.

A shishya of leading classical music exponent Kumar Gandharva — from 1954 to 1959 — she turned her house into a virtual gurukul in the eighties. Her doors were open to all, literally as well, since the entrance to her residence was rarely locked. And the room where she lay confined to the bed with debilitating arthritis was forever swarming with people. Students and adults wanting to learn classical music, contemporaries wishing to share ideas with her or the needy and underprivileged seeking help in cash or kind— all felt free to approach her.

It was through this very door that I had first passed some time in early 1994, to become a shishya of this "melody queen", about whom I had heard from a friend.

And she not only became my guru, but also my guide and mentor — a 'mother figure' who was forever inspiring me. In fact, so welcoming and affectionate were all her family members that they became an extended family for me.

Though she was diminutive in build, her petite frame encased a towering personality. Her sweet, gentle voice cloaked an inner resilience and steely strength. And her tinkling laughter and bespectacled , smile-creased eyes masked the excruciating pain that her arthritis - afflicted body gave her.

Never ever did I see her smile wane or hear her complain about her ailment. For a woman who had spent most of her adult life — over 30 years — under strong medication for her inflamed joints or undergoing some surgery or the other, she showed admirable grace and courage. Rarely did I find her courage flag or her zest for life diminish.

Except that once, in 1996, when her visit to attend the Chandigarh Sangeet Sammelan turned into a nightmare. She was so happy at meeting friends and well-wishers at the sammelan. Her eyes actually shone at being in the midst of her much-loved circle of music lovers. The long, arduous journey that she had braved even in her fragile health seemed well worth the effort. But on the final day of the sammelan, she tripped while getting up from a sofa and landed in the PGI.

So enormous and unbearable was her pain that when I visited her in hospital, I found her almost in tears, as if beseeching the doctors to give her deliverance from the excruciating pain. That one day, her armour of bravery broke down. And quite understandably so, for anyone with lesser grit and resilience would have given up on life long ago.

In her case, it was probably the soothing balm of music and the constant urge to live life to its fullest that made her surmount all odds and kept her going.

Surprisingly, for somebody who was responsible for initiating many tiny tots into the Hindustani music tradition, she herself did her MA in music at the age of 54 ( she was already a double postgraduate, having done postgraduation in education and English both ). Even her ailment did not deter her from achieving this goal — she made a little boy write out her exam answers, which she dictated while being on complete bed rest.

Nor did her limited mobility stop her from doing charitable work or participating in social activities.

This Maharashtrian, who was born and brought up in Indore, was an enthusiastic participant in the activities of the Maharashtra Mandal and Sai Samaj. She donated generously to various charitable organisations, including the Red Cross, and took out time for humanitarian work, like teaching music to blind children.

The last time I met her was in late 1999. I was on a brief visit to Delhi. The trip seemed incomplete without a meeting with her. So, I traversed the unfamiliar roads of Gurgaon to locate her new house and spent a morning with her. My joy at seeing her mingled with pain upon finding that the constant dose of painkillers and steroids had taken a toll of her health. Her face and limbs were swollen and her back was giving her immense trouble. But she seemed as content and bubbly as ever. Resting in the midst of her three naughty grandsons, her world seemed complete.

She informed me that when I had called her up the previous evening, her daughter-in-law, Neetika, had wondered, "Ammu , what is it that draws people to travel all the way to meet you ?".

That day, more than her ailment, she seemed more worried about her husband, Dr S.B. Sathe's health. She was prodding him to go for a heart check-up to his relatives in Lucknow. "Inko operation se bahut dar lagta hai", she said jokingly of him. "And look at me, I've been through so many surgeries," she laughed on.

Who was to know at that time that fate would snatch her away from all of us so soon after. Even though I was not in frequent contact with her, I would always call her up when I was in Delhi. Only a month ago, I had sent New Year greetings to her, hoping that 2001 would bring some improvement in her health. Sadly, the first month of the new year itself has turned out to be the last chapter of her life.

Today, my harmonium and music diary are the only tangible signs I have of my association with her. And of course, there is the gift of melody — which she so lovingly gave to me and scores of other shishyas, symbolised aptly by these lyrics of Firaq Gorakhpuriwhich she sometimes sang for us:

"Saat suron ka bahta dariya tere naam.
Har sur mein hai rang chhalakta tere naam".