Sometimes, the Street Was His Stage

The image Mansur projected for the camera was no different from his usual spontaneous self, says photographer Parthiv Shah.

The image Mansur projected for the camera was no different from his usual spontaneous self, says photographer Parthiv Shah. It was a blistering summer afternoon and I was sitting alone with Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur in sarod maestro Biswajit Roy Choudhary’s barsati in Delhi. He suddenly felt the craving for a beedi and we headed downstairs to buy a packet of his favourite Mangalore Ganesh. 

I had just moved to Delhi from Ahmedabad and my acquaintance with Panditji was still in its early phase. Every relationship, initially, has its awkward moments—the uncomfortable silences, the ill-at-ease conversations. This affliction, however, seemed to be plaguing me alone. Panditji seemed his usual cheerful self. During the walk, though, I felt a tremendous pressure to fill in the silence. Not knowing what else to talk about, I began to compliment him on his music. I told him that though I didn’t know much about classical music, whatever he sang touched my heart.

He heard me out quietly and asked me for my favourite raga. I was flummoxed, as I had limited knowledge of ragas back then, let alone a favourite. I suddenly recalled a conversation with a friend’s father, when we had spoken about Nat Kamod. Little did I know that I would be treated to a spontaneous performance the very second I blurted out the name. There we were, standing at a paan shop in the middle of a buzzing marketplace, with Vividh Bharti playing in the background, when Panditji began singing the famous Newar Baajo in Nat Kamod. Though I blushed a beetroot red when his performance began to attract attention, I felt a deep sense of honour as well. Here was a musical genius standing on the road singing just for me. 

That was Panditji was for you. He was always spontaneous, full of life. Other musicians would test the sound, adapt their swar to suit the ambience. He was free of all such pretensions. If you asked him about a particular bandish, he would break into a song to demonstrate the nuances. Singing was as natural to him as breathing or sleeping. 

When I first met him in 1989, I had given no serious thought to photographing him. He was not the usual flamboyant artiste who styled himself for a great image. I have shot many artistes like Bhimsen Joshi and Kishori Amonkar; their art was infused with a certain aura, a certain style and a bit of ego. Mansurji was the easiest to work with. A lot of others would get very conscious in front of the camera, about the way they were being projected. 

Watching him perform, too, was equivalent to a life-changing experience. Panditji would get so animated; he would move his hands a lot, interact with the audience and his saajedars. I am glad I got to know him as a person first and then as a musician. He would ask my friend Kalidas to call me wherever he stayed and we would all sit around him, enjoying his anecdotes and soul-stirring music. He was equally comfortable in a dimly-lit hostel and in a lavish South Delhi bungalow. To him, all that mattered was his music.

I have observed several other artistes away from the arc lights, in the safe haven of the green room. Behind the rustling of the silk and the glamour of the stage lie some very different faces. Personalities assume dark hues when no one is looking. There is so much gossip and negative commentary that one gets to hear. Panditji was not like that. He had no second personality. He remained true to himself and his kala throughout his career.

As told to Avantika Bhuyan

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