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Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan: His Life
and Music
Nothing would hurt him more in his grave than the knowledge that this genius would now have to be proved. There is no bigger disrespect for a person whose ego was as big as his heart. Neither is this the first biography of the Ustad, nor is it the last word on him, but this will give you a fresh peep inside the maestro’s private chambers. Although much of his musical life is already well documented, this work was composed because temples to gods have always been raised, regardless of the head count. Eulogy, too, is a vocal tradition. Disciples are one of the best sources for information on maestros, and easily the worst. Of the two biographers, the writer is happy playing the second fiddle to the musician. While Quratulain Hyder is writing with invisible ink, Maliti Gilani is holding her pen too close to her heart. The authoress doesn’t attribute infallibility to her guru, but drapes it with such modesty that it doesn’t seem more than just the eccentricities of an old-fashioned gentleman. She is not silent on her Ustad’s relationship with courtesans, but her aim is to present a true picture of the times and not to add spice to her sweet memories. The portrait is of a large-hearted man, who never let anyone twist his arm, leave alone his music. Such sketches are better made in ink, with a pen for paintbrush. Images from the works of M. F. Husain are there just for the cosmetic relief. The Ustad lived in two worlds at one time. He was at once rooted in tradition, yet unafraid to break barriers, modest yet given to a rush of the ego, deeply religious yet profoundly secular, rural yet charmed with modern city life and big fancy cars. It was his unquestionable integrity that saved his music from the cultural apartheid that was being attempted in the wake of Partition, even though it split his heart. The maestro who looked down upon patronage spent his last days in the care of the Nizam of Hyderabad. As a teacher, the Ustad was like a river. The surface gave life. Below was death. If you had the lungs and the spirit to survive that depth, there was no better training. A more scholarly tribute to him comes at the end, from Dr Sushil Kumar Saxena, who has written extensively on Hindustani music. Bade Ghulam Ali Khan was lucky that he died before he could see the slow death of the Ustad gharanas and horrible corruption of classical music. It may turn out that the next Ustad is hiding somewhere far away, in his family’s ancestral homeland of Kasur or posing as a ponlytailed westoxicated rock musician. There’s no shortage of theories. The statue’s been rebuilt, the god shall return. |
It’s
magic to us what Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan did as a routine on many a
hot afternoon when he melted heavens. The weather changed its mood in
appreciation of Mian ki Malhar, the classical rain song immortalised by
Mian Tansen. It’s not for nothing that musicologists rank Ustad Bade
Ghulam Ali Khan with Swami Haridas, Mian Tansen and Baiju Bawra.
Although he is not known to have melted stones, if you had a heart of
stone, he could melt it, and if you were musically deaf, he could give
you an ear for music.