Begum Akhtar, the beloved 20th-century Hindustani singer, was born on October 7, 1914, and died on October 30, 1974. YouTube features her dadra (six-beat song), "Hamri atariya pe aao savariya," composed by Sudarshan Fakir, as well as ghazals like "Woh jo hum me tum me qarar tha" by Momin, and thumris. An all-too-human persona, she was nevertheless influenced by fascinating occurrences, some of them spiritually profound. I learned of several incidents back in 2001 from her disciple, Rita Ganguly.
1914, Faizabad. Singer Mushtari Bai has given birth to twin girls, Anwari and Akhtari. Her Sayyid husband has married her legally, but has not taken her home. His hostile relatives manage to poison the babies. Anwari dies. Akhtari survives.
1924, Faizabad. Akhtari learns music from stern old Ata Mohammed Khan. Every time she thinks she’s got a note right, he scolds harshly: “Taaseer kab sikhoge?” (When will you learn quality?). Akhtari is only ten. What could taaseer possibly mean? One day, she hears a mendicant street singer. “Kaliyarwale, mere Sain, laaj rakhli jo aaj rakhli/Ishq mein tere umar gawaai/Laaj rakhli jo aaj rakhli,” croons the fakir about the 13th-century Sufi, Sabir Shah of Kaliyar Sharif, a shrine near Roorkee. Young as she is, Akhtari recognises that this is taaseer, that it develops only after the heart has been battered by pain, love, and longing.
That year, she is taken to an important musical gathering in Calcutta. The audience is restless, waiting for the big singers. “Shall I send in Akhtari meanwhile?” asks her teacher. “This chit?” the organisers protest, but send her anyway. “Ya Maula Ali madad,” whispers Akhtari, trembling in fright, before singing a traditional air. Waves of applause follow, but despite that encouraging start, her life lacks progress.
1925, Bareilly Sharif. Mushtari Bai stands at the Sufi’s door with her daughter, a dupatta held out in supplication. “Nothing is hidden from you,” she murmurs, “I have neither income nor people. What should I do with my daughter? Marry her off or let her sing?” The pir considers Akhtari’s rebellious stance. “Is that a songbook in your hand?” he asks. Akhtari nods impertinently. “Open it anywhere and bring it to me,” he says. Tossing her head, Akhtari does so. The pir places his hand on the open page. “Begin your next performance with whichever song is printed here,” he tells her in blessing. Impressed, Akhtari obeys. Behzad Lucknawi’s lyrics become a runaway hit: “Deewana banana hai toh deewana bana de/Varna kahin taqdeer tamasha na bana de.” Years later, the rendition is recorded and sells so much that HMV imports a record-pressing plant from England after initially dispatching her recording there for production.
However, Akhtari strays from music, acting for Bombay’s Corinthian Theatre in theological plays like Sita and Damayanti. She befriends a smart, Westernised set, knocks back cocktails, parties late with glamorous companions, and drives an expensive car at top speed for the thrill.
1930, Bhopal. The Nawab celebrates his son’s wedding. Each royal house brings its top artists. Their musicians and dancing girls are so finely dressed that the nobility jests that they are grander than the bahu-betis in purdah. A mehfil or soiree is arranged. Akhtari goes, too, as an incidental presence. Royal women listen from screened galleries.
Divas like Rasoolan Bai of Benares, Kesarbai Kerkar, the Malka-e-khayal, and Siddheshwari Devi, the Malka-e-thumri, sing sublimely. Then, the Maharaja of Benares raises his voice. “Ab gaana sun liya jaaye,” (Let’s hear some singing now), he says to the Nawab of Bhopal with suspenseful intent. The Nawab nods, intrigued, and ‘Kashi Naresh’ snaps his fingers. “Aao, Badi Maina,” he summons. A simply dressed woman, with no rings or chains, emerges from the back. “Has she come to a wedding or a funeral?” runs the disapproving whisper. Badi Maina requests permission to sit. A resonant dhrupad, that oldest and mightiest of musical measures, pours forth in the majestic raga Darbari Kaanada. “Mubarak badhaiyan Allah Rasool ne tohe deen hai,” sings Badi Maina. It is Mian Tansen’s own composition, created at Akbar’s behest for the wedding of Prince Salim.
Akhtari, like everyone else, is stunned. “I have ruined my life,” she weeps, and goes straight to Behre Wahid Khan of the Kirana Gharana. Akhtari learns well and gains recognition. Inevitably, she is invited to Rampur by its Nawab, a connoisseur of music.
1934, Rampur. Great ustads have assembled for the Nawab’s pleasure. It is winter, and Akhtari feels unwell. She absents herself, but the Nawab sends for her. She is compelled to sing, and he gifts her his costly shawl. A jealous tabla ustad hisses, “How did this two-bit creature walk off with such a reward?” Furious, Akhtari plots revenge. Boldly entering the Nawab’s courtyard when he is being massaged, she suggests that until he experiences the magic fingers of the tabla wizard, he’ll never know what a true massage is. Her enemy is humiliated, and Akhtari is bedecked with jewelry. She pays dearly for it. That evening, the Dewan comes with an ‘invitation’ from the Nawab. Panicked, Akhtari vanishes instantly. She resurfaces only after two years, in Lucknow.
1937, Lucknow. Akhtari’s talent cannot be hidden. Many concerts follow. Driving at maniacal speed some years later, she almost kills a young barrister, Ishtiaq Ahmed Abbasi, the Nawab of Kakoli. Quixotically, he falls in love with her. It is the stuff of legend how Akhtari marries him in 1945, despite the condition that she stops singing, charms his family, and then returns powerfully to music in 1949 after a deep depression from having stopped. Happily, her music lives on to enchant new generations.
Renuka Narayanan | FAITHLINE | Senior journalist
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