That day my maternal uncle came with aunty and their daughter, my didi. I was not in a mood to enjoy their visit. Because that day was Dashomi. The end of four-day carnival —- Durga puja. It meant, as if, the whole world came crashing down. No more joy. No more fun. No more pandal-hopping. No more bursting of fire crackers for four uninterrupted days. It also meant a dreary thing, inescapable – the imminent starting of annual examinations in a few weeks. So after unfettered freedom, now get down to serious business. Study. And study. So how can I get elated over their visit, even if they come from Calcutta?
I sat aloof while they sat around and had some fun with my family members. My uncle had a sharp sense of humour and he could use it to such an effect that the hearers went into splits each time he cut a joke. So from time to time wild laughter erupted in our dining room in that evening. My father, who I never saw smile (as, perhaps, all fathers do), guffawed much more than others did. It was really a happy time; except for me.
My didi noticed it. She came over to me, started chatting. But I largely kept to myself. Come on, what happened? Is it to see your such a zombie face I’ve come to Burdwan, leaving behind excitement of our Calcutta puja and fabulous dine-out with my friends? Didi asked, looking visibly upset. I’m ok. I mumbled a reply.
Tere mere beech mein kaisa hai yeah bandhan anjana – didi hummed. I heard the song in puja days. There was hardly any time of day when this song was not played in Mausumi club, my puja days sojourn. I could not understand words. As a nursery kid, it was not expected either. I only followed melody.
I could not believe my ears. Didi has such an audacity to hum “mike songs” when elders are around! I looked around. Nobody was in any mood to take notice of what “tabooed” songs were going on here. I felt relieved.
Didi was unrelenting. She was quick to find out my nervousness. She sang out aloud.
The whole room fell silent.
I heard this song quite a few times during puja days. Who sang it? The question came from none other than my father!
S. P. Balasubrahmanyam. Didi said with enthusiasm, having attracted elder’s attention in the room.
This singer is a genius. The way he carries the whole song is brilliant. What a control he has over notes. He must have a sound classical training. Words oozed from father, who, otherwise, was economical with expressions.
Chup. Chup. Didi hushed the room, keeping one finger over her lips. Listen…Pishemoshai….. another one from Ek duje ke liye…
Hum bane tum bane ek duje ke liye…. Wafted from afar Lata Mangeshkar.
Didi sang out.
The whole room was on song.
I don’t know what you say…. came in the male voice of Balasubrahmanyam. So catchy. So peppy.
The previous song’s classical perfectionist can dissemble to so trendy.
It was the evening of 1981.
This evening, I am writing, is 2020.
Some characters of that evening are no more.
S. P. Balasubrahmanyam is included today.
“I don’t know what you say”– I said to myself in utter disbelief when the newscaster broke the news on TV.
Because artists never can die.
S. P. Balasubrahmanyam has built his own melodic empire in a world spanning from Kishore Kumar to KK, from romantic mesmerizing Kamal Hasan to muscle-flexing Salman Khan; an indelible feat.
Between the Indian audiences and S. P. Balasubrahmanyam, there remains a mystic “bandhan” forever. Mere death cannot dare to touch it.
So rest in profound serenity, S.P.