Hoye gelo. Over. But he hasn't gone - Robu shesh hoye jayeni. He is there and he will be there... in all our tomorrows.
Ravi Shankar's sitar taught the world what Indian Classical ragas are all about. Indian music is eternal - saswat. It is universal - world music. Robu, Ananda, (Uday) Shankar, they don't go away. But there are times when I feel like asking God: Why am I still around? I ask God - although I've never met him - because today I have lost a brother, a friend, a colleague in the demise of one person: Ravi Shankar.
In 1930, I was merely 11 when my father Akshay Nandi took me to Paris for an International Colonial Exhibition. Baba used to bring out a magazine named Matri Mandir where writers like Ashapurna Devi, Mankumari Devi, Radharani Devi were all regulars. In the Indian pavilion Baba had mounted an exhibition of our handiwork - the term 'handicraft' had yet to add value to such work. One day we were surprised by the visit of some Indians in suits and trousers who were introduced to us as "Uday Shankar" and "Timir Baran". Now, although I'd heard a lot about Uday Shankar and his work with Indian dance, I was taken aback as I was expecting someone old with snow-white, flowing beard a la Rabindranath.
While leaving he invited us to his house where his mother and brothers were staying. That's where I first met Robu. A year younger to me, he came out of a room, still trying to tuck in the string of his pajamas! From the very first moment I got a brother and a friend. His mother took me under her wings: she draped me in a sari and tied my long hair. I spent the weekend with them and was dropped back on a Monday. Later that week we went to watch Uday Shankar perform with his troupe - and was left speechless.
Long 81 years have passed since that visit to Paris. I did not return to France until this May, when I went to Cannes for the screening of the restored Kalpana. Meanwhile my father, who initially said 'no' to my dancing as I was good at writing, agreed to send me to Almora where Uday Shankar proposed to me, we got married, we made Kalpana, Ananda and Mamata were born....
Through all these years, Robu has remained a brother, friend, companion. We played together, we danced together, we made music together, we read Ramayan together, we would share ideas and thoughts. That's why, every time we met, at whatever age, he'd say, "Boudi, you remember that day...?" or "Boudi, surely you haven't forgotten that time...!"
One day in Almora Shankar was concerned. "Where've you been?" he asked Robu and me. We'd gone out for a walk in the jungles and lost track of time! Sometimes he'd be dushtu, naughty. A photographer wanted to take a photo of us together. He suddenly posed like Krishna with his flute. I responded by becoming Radha. I think this is the best encapsulation of our friendship. I used to challenge him: "Tell me, do you have a more affectionate bond with any other person?" No, he'd agree, no one else was friend and sister rolled into one.
Robu always said, he had two gurus - Uday Shankar and Baba Allauddin Khan. From his elder brother Robu had mastered his showmanship: he knew what, and how much, to play, where. Uday Shankar loved Western music but he gave Robu to Baba's care. When he married Annapurna, I decked her up in bridal finery although I was still not married. Years later, one day Annapurna was complaining that Robu is deviating from Baba's signature music. "That's all!" I said. "You've married the younger brother, I, the elder. If you find five faults in Robu, I can find seven. Instead, why don't you see the qualities that have endeared him to all?"
In Uday Shankar's troupe there were 360 Indian instruments though we toured with only 130! Robu learnt the strength of each of these. That is why he could create Vrinda Gaan (Choral Music) for AIR. In Kalpana, there's a sequence where he used dekchi, handi, pitcher etc to create the robust 'noisy' music of street kids.
Ravi Shankar could understand Uday Shankar's talent, and he understood Robu's. This came out when we staged Samanya Kshati to mark Tagore Centenary in 1961, at Nehru's behest. "Got it!" Shankar had said soon as I recited the poem. But the subject was difficult to translate into a dance drama. When the Queen of Kashi sets afire some jhuggis to warm herself after a bath in the Ganga, the king banished her from the palace until she rebuilds them. But how to show realisation dawning on the repentant queen? How to translate Tagore's introspective lines into movement when Shankar never used words?
That's where Robu's music stepped in. The minute I recited the line Robu, whose sitar was playing the queen's dialogue while Ali Akbar's sarod was speaking for the king, stopped in his track. "Repeat it exactly as you spoke!" he urged. I did so, and he played the bols in his gayaki-ang, giving birth to a masterpiece.
Although in its sunset years, Robu and his brothers were born into a zamindar family where it was routine for them to be served six kinds of meat with 16 bottles of alcohol evening. I came from a rural background where we routinely had milk and flattened rice (chira) for breakfast. But we never had any gulf in our lives because we were knit together by the values and common ideals of eternal India.
That bond will continue beyond our lives.
(As told to Ratnottama Sengupta)
