Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande - Part One
Veena Nayak
anniversary of Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande.
As a tribute to a personal favourite and
also to provide a biographical sketch to
the readers of these newsgroup, I am
presenting a three-part series of articles
on Dr. Deshpande. The first piece was written
by the man himself and describes the inception
and early development of his musical life.
It was originally published in the 1976 issue
of ‘Kishore DiwaLi’, a bumper DeepavaLi issue
that is part of a tradition among regional
magazines in India. It was later reprinted in
‘Vasantrao Deshpande: Ek SmaraN’, a commemorative
compilation that was released on his first death
anniversary. To provide a chronological frame of
reference, the events in the article begin around
1927-28.
All three articles are translations from their
Marathi originals. The remaining two are still
‘under construction’. I will make every effort
to post them at two-week intervals, but the
highly erratic nature of my professional duties
may mess up my good intentions.
Many, many thanks to my friend Ajay Nerurkar
who, in spite of being in the throes of
dissertation delivery, handled my innumerable,
pesky questions with kindness and patience.
His advice rescued me from many a linguistic
corner and endowed the translations with a
level of readability far greater than anything
I could have achieved on my own.
Veena
*************************************************
ONE DRENCHED EVENING
Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande
*************************************************
On some rainy evenings, as I stand in the
balcony of my house in Pune, my mind harks
back to one particular rain-drenched evening
of my childhood. That evening guided me to
the path of my life. A path which later
reached as far as Lahore.
I was six or seven years old then. My mother
and I were living by ourselves in Telipur
in Nagpur. Mother was a school teacher and
our circumstances were impoverished. I used
to attend the municipal school. God has gifted
my mother with a sweet voice. In those days
she would sing bhajans at the temple.
Occasionally she would watch stage dramas
as a result of which she knew by rote many
songs from these dramas.
(Translator’s note: At this point the
narrative switches abruptly to the middle
of the next ‘scene’ without introducing a
context. I strongly suspect a printing
omission either in the original publication
or the later reproduction. The blank may be
filled from what follows later in the article:
presumably, one day the boy was on his way
home from school when it began to rain.
Taking shelter in the staircase of a nearby
building, he probably began singing to
himself as he waited for the rain to subside…)
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder and shook
out of my concentration. Shankarrao Sapre was
standing beside me. Taking me upstairs, he led me
into his special room and began interrogating me:
“What is your name, child?”
“Vasant Deshpande.”
“Where do you live?”
“Quite nearby – in Telipur.”
“Who taught you to sing?”
“My mother.”
“Which songs can you sing?”
Immediately, one after the other, I belted out
all the songs that I knew. At that time I had
no knowledge whatsoever about scales, etc in music.
In fact, other than the footruler, I knew of no
other scale. Nonetheless, I must have sung well
that day because Shankarrao looked pleased with
my singing.
A considerable amount of time passed in this manner.
I was certain that my mother would be angry because
I was late. Shankarrao said, “Come, I’ll take you home.
I want to talk to your mother.” Taking me under his
umbrella, he escorted me home. In retrospect, I
realise that the umbrella he held over my head did
not just shelter me from the rain that day, but was
symbolic of something much more significant. From
then on, he was to become a guiding force in my life.
As I had expected, Mother was angry. She was taken
aback when she saw the stranger with me.
“Who are you?”, she enquired. Shankarrao briefly
introduced himself and explained that he had caused
my delay in returning home. Mother cooled down.
Shankarrao said,
“Your son has a very good voice. I wish to teach
him to sing.”
“But we are not in a position to pay your fees.”
“Fees are not an issue. All I request is that you
put him in my care.”
“Sir, he is my only son. My support. How can I put
him in your care? Besides, it would interrupt his
schooling.”
“He won’t have to stop going to school. I will
teach him in the evenings, everyday.”
Mother finally gave her consent. Shankarrao said,
“You must, however, sign a bond stating that you
will not send him to anyone else for music lessons.”
Mother told him to consider her word as the bond
and assured him that she would not send her boy
to learn music with anyone else.
Yours truly thus entered Sriram Sangeet Vidyalaya.
At the time, Ram Chitalkar (whom the Indian masses
know as C. Ramchandra), Keshav Savarkar (who is
now a station master at Amravati), and Shankar
Karandikar (who currently resides in Akola) were
my fellow students. Of all the students in my
class, C. Ramchandra and I were the only ones
whose trains remained on musical tracks.
I began my elementary education in music.
Shri Shankarrao Sapre had one special trait
in him: he loved the Vidyalaya students as
though they were his own children. My
municipal school education was ongoing
at that time. I have yet to encounter a
teacher who, like Shankarrao Sapre, would
wait for me near the school entrance with
his bicycle as my classes came to an end.
Once I got out of school, he would take me
on the bicycle to his house. He lived in
the same building that housed the Vidyalaya.
When we reached his house, he would feed me
and then the music would begin. At the end
of the taalem, Shri TamhaNe, who was a
teacher at the Vidyalaya, would escort me home.
Along with vocal music, I was also learning to
play the tabla.
As a student of music, I had to occasionally
participate in a different type of activity.
It was the era of silent movies. The theatre
that we now know as Reagent Talkies used to be
called “Birdie Picture House” in those days and
it used to screen these silent films. Background
music for the films would be provided by some
musicians sitting near the screen and playing
the harmonium and the tabla. Sapre-Master would
occasionally send me and C. Ramchandra for this
job. I played the tabla and Ram, the harmonium
and together we had a blast with the background
score. Nobody insisted that the music be
suitable to the film situation. Therefore, we sat
there and just played all the songs we knew.
Sometimes, if we got bored at the Vidyalaya,
the two of us would inform our teachers and
escape to the theatre to play music. We were
able to watch movies at the same time that we
were getting a job done.
Shri Shankarrao Sapre, with great fondness,
taught me the elementary lessons of music.
He was as loving as a father. Hence, I never
felt that learning music was an ordeal. Like
the ties that bind a duck to water, so was the
attachment that I formed with music. It became
a part of my being. One begins to really
appreciate music when it descends from the
voice box and enters, so to speak, the bloodstream.
Sometimes I wonder what course my life might have
taken had it not rained that evening and had I not
taken shelter by that staircase. Perhaps I might
never have met Shankarrao Sapre and my life may
have changed track and headed for some unexpected,
strange destination.
Life took a different turn in the course of my
education. Chitalkar and I received offers to
work in films. Silent movies had given way to
talkies by then. C. Ramchandra was selected to
play the hero in “Naaganand” while I was chosen
for the role of Krishna in Kolhapur Cinetone’s
“Kaaliya Mardan”. People liked my portrayal of
Krishna in the movie; however, I lost one and
a half years in the process. I had to stay in
Kolhapur until the film was completed. In those
days, film actors had to undergo training and
rehearsals just like stage actors did.
The discipline that was enforced resembled
the rigour of a large factory where one has
to arrive and leave at proper, specified times.
Separate apartments were provided for male,
female and child actors and everyone was
expected to restrict themselves to their
own quarters. I, however, as a child artist
and a guest from Nagpur at that, was fondly
indulged and allowed to roam everywhere.
I did not formally learn music from anyone
in Kolhapur, but I did get to hear quite a
lot of music. Shri Bhalji Pendharkar had
announced that I should learn music from
Vishwanathbuwa Jadhav, the company music
director, but I did not. The music director
for Kaliya Mardan was the late Dada Chandekar.
For one and a half years, my schooling as well
as musical education was interrupted. Once my
work for the film was complete, however, I
returned to Nagpur. Ram Chitalkar stayed
behind in the movies.
When I came back to Nagpur, Shankarrao Sapre,
along with each and every student from the
Vidyalaya, was at the station to welcome me.
I was surprised, but also happy to see the
depth of his attachment to me. The warm
welcome was just the beginning. When
Kaliya Mardan was released at Reagent
Cinema (by then, Birdie Picture House had
turned into Reagent Cinema), I was publicly
feted. It was considered a remarkable
achievement that a boy from Nagpur and
especially, a student of Sriram Sangeet
Vidyalaya had become a hero in the talkies.
Sapre Master praised me immeasurably at the
function.
One of my uncles used to work in the Revenue
Department. He was on friendly terms with the
late Dinanathrao Mangeshkar’s Balwant Sangeet
MandaLi and would attend all of their stage
dramas. I too would accompany him. As I watched
the dramas, I was gradually drawn to the songs.
Moreover, I began attempting to sing them.
Inspired by Dinanathrao’s musical style,
I sang his songs in the same manner. Everyone,
especially Dinanathrao, was very appreciative
of my renditions. The road that led to his
theatre passed by our house and I would wait
at the window for him. When he sighted me at
the window, he would signal me with a wave of
his hand to join him. I would eagerly run to
him and together we would go to the theatre.
On the occasions that he did not see me by
the window, he would peep in and ask,
“Hey, aren’t you coming to the theatre?”
My mother was greatly distressed by my growing
friendship with a naaTakwaala (stage person).
Finally, one day she said to Dinanathrao,
“He is my only son. If you take him away onto
the stage, both our lives will be ruined.”
Dinanathrao replied, “I take him along because
he is interested in music. I will never let him
join the drama company. You may rest assured.”
Dinanathrao was extremely affectionate towards me.
I was allotted a special chair in the wings so that
I could properly hear his singing. Seated on this
chair, I heard his music to my heart’s content and
etched it onto my vocal cords. He never got angry
with my imitation of his singing style. On the
contrary, he lovingly taught me such songs as
“Shoora mi vandile”, “Jinkite jagi ti”, and
“Parvashtaa paash daive”. I have stored this
golden remembrance in my chest of memories,
protecting it as a hidden treasure that I
had stumbled upon suddenly.
At a certain point, Shankarrao Master said to me,
“You have now found the road to music. You must
decide for yourself the style of gayaki you must
adopt. Learn a style that you will like and in
which you will flourish.” I was thus confronted
with the problem of choosing a gayaki. At that
time, my uncle (“Mama”) who was employed with
the railways at Lahore, was visiting Nagpur.
After consulting with my mother, he decided to
take me to Lahore. Mama too was fond of music.
Hence he was proud of my singing. I went to
Lahore with him and got admission in a school
there. Mama was acquainted with several Muslim
singers. He would send me to listen to their
music every week. I also used to be invited
by Shri Apte from Gandharva University of Music
at Lahore. I could not decide whom to learn
music from.
I had a friend named Khanna at school. He
informed me that a fakir named Asad Alikhansaheb
lived on the opposite bank of the river Ravi,
at Jehangir’s tomb, called the Shahadara.
He was known to be a first-rate singer.
If I could win his grace, the music would
reap benefits throughout my lifetime. I was,
however, unsure about how to approach him.
Khanna said, “Come on, I’ll take you.”
My friend and I went to the Shahadara. We had
to walk about three and a half miles. The old
fakir was sitting there. We greeted him and
said that we wanted to hear his music. He looked
at me closely and said, “See those five fakirs
sitting outside; give them one paisa each and
I’ll sing one cheez for you.” Accordingly, I gave
one paisa to each fakir. Khansaheb sang one cheez.
His tayyari was superb and the music was fantastic.
He even gave me permission to transcribe the
cheez, which I did. When I related this incident
to Mama, he started giving me five paise everyday.
Asad Alikhan’s music became an addiction for me.
Everyday I would walk three and a half miles,
distribute the five paise among the fakirs and
listen and note down one cheez. In this manner,
I collected forty to fifty cheez-es.
I had heard Asad Alikhansaheb’s music, had even
transcribed it in my notebook, but it was
impossible for me to vocalise it myself. I had
observed the general appearance of Khansaheb’s
music but imbibed none if it. I spoke to Mama
about this obstacle. He advised me to fall at
Khansaheb’s feet and request him to teach me
his music. To this end, I enquired with several
persons and my friend Khanna also made some
investigations. He informed me that if I presented
Khansaheb with a basket of roses, sweets and
charas (a drug made from the flowers of hemp),
and insisted that he teach me music, he would
agree.
I immediately began my preparations. Mama purchased
a basketful of roses, confections and dry fruits.
He also gave me five rupees before I headed out in
search of charas. I had to walk around quite a lot.
Finally I found the shop. When I asked for one-rupee
worth of charas, the shopkeeper began glaring at me.
“Charas! You smoke charas at such a young age?!”
he exclaimed and proceeded to scold me vehemently.
In those days, even merchants were concerned about
the appropriate behaviour for boys at each age.
It was only when my friend explained to him the
motive behind my purchase that he was appeased.
Thus, armed with the flowers, sweets, dry fruits,
charas and the notebook which had the written
cheez-es , we went and stood before Asad Alikhansaheb.
He welcomed us affectionately. I said,
“I have come to beg your forgiveness”.
“Forgiveness? For what?”
“I made a mistake”.
“What mistake?”, he asked.
I told him that until that day I had listened
to his music. Had written down his cheez-es.
But I had not been able to internalise any of
it. Therefore, I had come to dedicate the
notebook at his feet and bid farewell.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He asked me
fondly, “You want to learn music? Fine.
You have now realised what music is. I will
teach you!”. The skies could not contain my
happiness when I heard his words. I promptly
presented him with the basket I had brought
with me. He asked me to place the flowers on
the nearby durgah and distribute the sweets
and fruits among the fakirs. When I offered
the charas, his and the other fakirs’ faces
lit up with joy and appreciation.
Asad Alikhansaheb took my hand and led me to
the edge of a nearby well. He sat on the edge
and made me sit next to him. The well was large
and deep. It was almost evening. He tied the
ganda on my wrist and gave me seven pedAs
(a milk confection). Ganda-bandhan implies
bonding with one’s guru as disciple, heir and
son, a tie that is symbolised by the ganda.
After tying the ganda, he gave me some whole
gram to eat. It is part of the ritual to offer
semi-roasted gram to the disciple. Such gram
is difficult to ingest, but one has to grind
one’s teeth and eat it anyway. It is as if
the student is being informed that the path
of acquiring knowledge is a hard one. When I
had finished eating the gram, he put a small
piece of jaggery in my mouth and uttered the
name of a raga in my ear (some gurus whisper
a note). Thus began my taleem. Khansaheb said
to me that day, “You have now earned the
privilege of receiving my music.”
He signaled one of the fakirs to begin:
“Shuru karo”, and the fakir began singing Marwa.
After a while, the second fakir began singing the
raga. Then the third, fourth and fifth. I had no
idea that they were all so accomplished in music.
It came as a pleasant shock. The drawback of
singing from one’s perch on the edge of a well
was that the voice would reverberate through the
well, creating a harmonic effect not unlike that
of an accompanying tanpura. Asad Alikhansaheb
interrupted the fakir, and picking up his taan,
he twirled it around so adroitly and landed on
the sam with such precision, that all the fakirs
stood up in their places with exclamations of
admiration. I just watched dumbstruck.
“This is what a cheez is, my son”, he said and
began my lessons.
For three continuous months, I went to the
Shahadara everyday to learn music.
Asad Alikhansaheb taught me only one raga,
Marwa, for three months but he taught it in
such a way that through that one raga,
I got a glimpse of all ragas.
Once I had mastered Marwa, he said to me,
“You have become a singer now. You know one
raga – I have shown you the essence of music.”
Lastly he said,
"Ek saadhe to sab saadhe
Sab saadhe to kuch nahin saadhe."
(To achieve one thing is to achieve everything
To achieve everything is to achieve nothing.)
With this formula, at the age of nineteen,
I set out on life’s musical journey.
********************************************************
Hemlata N. Khemani
> As a tribute to a personal favourite and
> also to provide a biographical sketch to
> the readers of these newsgroup, I am
> presenting a three-part series of articles
> on Dr. Deshpande.
Thanks Veena for sharing these articles with us.
> One of my uncles used to work in the Revenue
> Department. He was on friendly terms with the
> late Dinanathrao Mangeshkar’s Balwant Sangeet
> MandaLi and would attend all of their stage
> of my renditions. The road that led to his
> theatre passed by our house and I would wait
> at the window for him. When he sighted me at
This implies that DM's Balwant Sangeet MandaLi was in Nagpur! Does anyone
know where was it located and how long was it functional, especially under
DM's tenure? The article also implies that CR was a native of Nagpur.
Is that right?
Hema.
Harish Chinai
Thank you. The first part of the auto biography was so touching and moving that
my eyes became misty. I had known Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande very briefly in
Pune. I have very fond memories of my brief acquaintance with him and many
other great artistes of the day. During my college days in late sixties I lived
with a friend exactly opposite Hirabai Barodekar. Practically every evening
was a musical feast and during the days while Tai was teaching her students I
still remember cutting my classes to sit and listen to her. But most weekends
she used to have Bhimsenbua, Vasantrao, Prabha Atre and many other musicians get
together at her house and they used to have some unforgettable baithaks. I was
really fortunate to listen to some of the greatest vocal performances as it was
mostly great musicians singing to and for each other.
I also remember very fondly Vasantrao during the Savai Gandharva Conferences.
He was one of the key organizers and since he was the son in law of Savai
Gandharva, his dedication to these 3 days annual festival was incredible. His
tireless service during these festivals is still so fresh in my mind.
Your excellent translation has brought back flood of memories all happy and
wonderful.
Once again I am looking forward to the part 2 and 3. Thank you.
Abhay
har...@vastu.com wrote:
> I also remember very fondly Vasantrao during the Savai Gandharva
Conferences.
> He was one of the key organizers and since he was the son in law of
Savai
> Gandharva, his dedication to these 3 days annual festival was
incredible.
You are talking of two different persons: the name of Sawai Gandharva's
son-in-law was also Dr Vasantrao Deshpande, but he was not the singer
Vasantrao Deshpande! The son-in-law, known in Poona's music circles as
Nanasaheb Deshpande, was a physician who was also deeply interested in
music and was indeed one of the key organisers of the Sawai Gandharva
festival. His younger son (and therefore Sawai Gandharva's grandson)
had a brief spell of fame as one of Bhimsen Joshi's promising disciples.
Warm regards,
Abhay
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Share what you know. Learn what you don't.
Ashok
hnk...@pitt.edu says...
>
>This implies that DM's Balwant Sangeet MandaLi was in Nagpur! Does anyone
>know where was it located and how long was it functional, especially under
>DM's tenure? The article also implies that CR was a native of Nagpur.
>Is that right?
>
>Hema.
The connection between Vasantrao Deshpande and CR was noted sometime ago
by Aruna in an article on the Marathi music thread. Here are the excerpts.
Ashok
=========================================
From: aruna...@msmgate.mrg.uswest.com (Aruna Donde)
Newsgroups: rec.music.indian.misc
Subject: Re: Balgandharva and Marathi Natyasangeet
In 1983, a two cassette tapes (V1 and V2) named 'Marathi Naatya
Sangeetachi Vatchal' was released , in which VasantRao Deshpande presented
the history of Natyasangeet beginning with Kirloskar - Shakuntal,
Saubhadra and ending with Khadilkar - DinaNath Gayaki and Gandharva
Parampara . Vasantrao, as usual, is in top form and his description of
why's and the how's of this parampara are awsome. This is a must hear for
any Marathi Natya Sangeet lover.
BhaskarBoova Bakhale's great-grand-daughter-in-law (if such a term
exists), Shaila Datar has published a book in 1995, named 'Dev Gandharva'
as a homage to him. Also, on the must read list is a book by Shree
RamKrishna Baakre named 'Bujurg'. These books contain the Natya and
Shastriya Sangeet's history and the giants who nurtured it. Many others,
by Vamanrao Deshpande, Pu La and Gajananrao Joshi are alo well worth
reading.
> Asha Bhosle : Flattered her father by imitating him but did a commendable job
> of it.
A lot of the DinaNath gayaki was coached to Asha by Vasantrao, since he
was the only one left who could actually do so. DinaNath treated
Vasantrao as a shishya and a son and freely taught his 'aakramak' gayaki
to him.
A little piece of trivia for RMIM readers. Vasantrao Deshpande and
Ramchandra Chittalkar (Deshpandyancha Vasanta ani Chittalkarancha Ram)
were gurubandhu when they began learning their sa,re,ga,ma from Sapre
Guruji in Nagpur. Two brilliant gems, came from the same mine.
Aruna.
======================================
Harish Chinai
prade...@my-deja.com
Veena Nayak <vna...@acsu.buffalo.edu> wrote:
> July 30th 1999 marks the sixteenth death
> anniversary of Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande.
>
> As a tribute to a personal favourite and
That's wonderful, Veena. I look forward to the articles to follow.
I have had the priviledge of watching the great maestro at close
quarters, for Dr. Vasantrao was a close friend of my Guruji, late Pt.
Prakash Gore, who accompanied Dr. Vasantrao on several occassions,
during late seventees up untill Dr vasantrao's untimely death.
This article brought to me all the memories of those years.
Regards,
Pradeep