The room no bigger
than 10¢x12¢ was crowded with a
bed, a cloth horse and a dressing table, each one a fine specimen of curved
wood in pure Burma teak; time had taken away the shine of polish, yet they
stood tall in some innate glory. A gramophone sat on a rack at a corner with
its majestic presence. In the soft glow of morning sun, an assortment of empty
perfume bottles of varied size and shapes glittered over the dressing table. A
puny figure of a woman, also ancient like the furniture, crouched on a mat in
front of the small temple fixed at the corner of the room. Her silvery hair complemented
the whiteness of her sari, though both were merely a skeleton of their original
lustre.
‘Pranab, is that you
son?’ she reacted on a rustle at the corridor. Her voice, though frail chimed
like a musical note. ‘It’s me, Bhola; every time someone passes the oldie has
to call out. Don’t know why I even bother!’ a grumbling voice faded with the
footsteps along the corridor that connected a number of rooms in a row, housing
an ensemble tenants staying at meagre rent for years. She felt for her stick
and advanced towards the bed with effort.
‘Ma, how are you
keeping?’ a middle aged man in dhoti kurta with weather beaten face entered her
room on a Sunday morning. ‘Pranab, why didn’t you come for so long son? My old
eyes seek for you all the time’. ‘You think I have no work other than giving
you company?’ ‘Son, do something for my failing vision, I get scared at night’.
‘Doctor already told its cataract, need operation; you know very well it is
expensive and I am always hand to mouth.’ A sigh escaped involuntarily under
her breath. This was a weekly routine between the discounted mother and her
foster son, ever since, she had been indisposed and he too independent.
‘Burima, your lunch’,
a girl no more than fifteen placed a plate of paltry food on the ground; she
also helped the lady to sit for her lunch. ‘Weren’t you late today Rina or is
it my impatience?’ ‘Yes I am late, you must be hungry?’ ‘It’s not so much the food, it’s your company
I wait for dear’ she muttered with affection. ‘Don’t you know Burima today is
Holi?’ she radiated. ‘Holi!....’ the lady’s aged insipid eyes lit up with some
distant memory.
***
It was a musical
soiree at Mysore Palace; the enormous hall was graced by great musicians and
eminent personalities. The day was Vasant Poornima, there was riot of colours
in terms of dresses and colourful jewels; each one present in the hall was
vivacious in the mood of Holi.
‘Na maro Pichkari
saiyan paiyan paroon tori….’
(Don’t sprinkle colour
dear, I beg of you)
Indubala
dressed in an indigo coloured sari just like Sri Radha, performed on this
composition of her mentor Gauhar Jaan. Radiance of the immense crystal
chandelier overhead reflected on her diamond tiara with each move; she looked
every bit the Moon (Indu), the Orb of Night.
She was only twelve
when she performed for the first time in Calcutta along with her mother Rajbala;
the music world embraced her with open arms instantly. She became a
professional singer against the wish of her mother who tried to keep her away
from the tag of being from Rambagan, a notorious red light area of Calcutta,
her childhood home.
Mother was naïve, she
failed to come to term with the fact that the daughter of Motilal Bose of The Great
Bengal Circus, the famous Gramophone singer, a prominent stage artiste, a Film
star, none of these could wipe out the tag of Rambagan from her name; no matter
neither of the mother daughter ever joined the trade.
It was Gauhar Jaan
the diva, gorgeous, enigmatic took her through the finesse of Thumri; she
taught her to be bold, not to be ashamed of her background. ‘It is your talent
that draws people towards you, not your family name’ she always
emphasised.
‘Mantu-da’, Mahindra
Nath Ghosh a famous Gramophone singer knew her as a promising child, as he was
acquainted with her mother. He introduced her as a record artist to HMV, she
was only sixteen. ‘You can do it Indu, it’s there in you’; he encouraged the nervous
teenager. Her songs were big hits ever since she recorded the first one.
***
‘Mohe punghat par
nandlal cher dino re,
mori nazuk kalaiyan
maroro dino re’.
(Nandlal teased me at the riverbank,
He grasped my delicate
wrists.)
That
handsome face vibrant in youthful intelligence, always present at her concerts
as a silent admirer; she considered him as her Nandlal. Romance blossomed
secretly amidst name, fame and prosperity. He often gifted her exclusive
perfumes, indulging her fetish for fragrance. ‘Why do you waste so much of
money?’ she would ask while playing with his unruly curls. ‘It’s not a waste
dear, it’s an investment. Whenever, you put them on I shall be around.’ ‘What
if they all finish?’ she teased. ‘The empty bottles will remind of me’.
The
empty bottles still reminded her of him, much after he disappeared from her
life.
A
dashing young man dressed in saffron kurta of pure khadi and yellow silk turban
came to Manmohan theatre one evening at the rehearsal of their upcoming play. Those
large compassionate eyes contrasting the boldness of his character made her
curious. He was the famous poet, singer, composer and freedom fighter Kazi
Nazrul Islam; beloved ‘Kazi-da’ to all the theatre artists. Kazi-da opened a new poetic world for her; she
started singing his compositions for Gramophone Company as well. The depth of
his composition, the poetic value of the lyrics took her to a different arena of
music; she became an adored household name with his songs.
‘Cheona Sunayona ar cheona ei nayon pane’
(Don’t look at my
eyes you doe-eyed beauty)
It
was one of the two Nazrul songs she first recorded, ‘this song suits you Indu’ Kazi-da
said light-heartedly hinting at her beautiful eyes.
***
The
morning air carried a soothing chill at the onset of winter in November; a strip
of sun touched the corner of the bed. The frail frame of Indubala laid still,
her pale face serene with eternal peace. ‘Burima!’ the tea cup fell on the
floor as Rina shrieked in alarm. A long play record kept playing of Indubala’s
Nazrul song,-
‘Mor ghumo ghore ele
manohar namo namo,namo
srabono meghe nache
natabar, ramochamo chamachamo ramajhamo Shiyare boshi chupi chupi chumile nayan
mor bikoshilo abeshe tonu, nipashamo nirupamo manoramo’
(My greetings to you beloved, you came in my sleep; the dancing
Lord, you kissed my eyes in silence. My body and soul blossomed in thrill, dearest,
my love)
*** ***
Note: Indubala
was born in Amritsar in the year 1899; her father Motilal Bose the proprietor
of The Great Bengal Circus married her mother a trapeze artiste of his circus
in a temple at Ujjain. Her mother Rajbala declined to resume her circus job post
Indu’s birth that annoyed Motilal greatly. As a result he disowned Rajbala who
eventually landed up at Rambagan. Rajbala trained herself as a singer and
earned a name in the profession. Indubala declined to be a trained nurse as per
her mother’s wish and came into singing world to gain extraordinary repute. She
died in destitution at the age of 85 on 30th November, 1984.
©2014 ananyapal ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
