Sometimes,only a cliché will do. And thus,when Pandit Bhimsen Joshi died on Sunday,aged 88,for so many people it was truly the end of an era. Joshi had a long,full,and remarkably productive life. He,together with Mallikarjun Mansur,Kishori Amonkar and Pandit Jasraj,took Hindustani classical vocals to a new level of popularity,artistry and accessibility. And it is the end of an era precisely because his lifetime,in which he accomplished so much,was also the era of the transformation of classical music,a transformation in which he participated and which he helped mould. He was born as our vocal traditions were being classicised; he performed in the legendary era of all-night concerts,when great singers would keep going till dawn; he dominated the age of state sponsorship and the National Programmes of Music on Doordarshan; and he was a beloved institution by the time that liberalisation happened,and music labels and recordings proliferated. Joshi was,of course,one of the consummate practitioners of his art. Those who listen to him remember with what ease and brilliance he could pluck a perfectly moulded note out of thin air,starting a concert like a well-tuned sports car. But,even more than that,he was an ambassador for our indigenous classical traditions,a man who managed to be both authentic and a crowd favourite,a populariser without being populist. For an entire generation,his was the face,with a drawn and inward-looking expression,that kicked off the vocals in Films Divisions Mile Sur Mera Tumhara; and one look at that expression,one listen to the booming,perfect voice,and even those who hadnt heard classical music before understood how it was special,and so was he. Joshi,thus,will leave behind hundreds of thousands of fans of his people whom,in addition,became fans of Hindustani vocals thanks to him. And,like all great performers,he will leave behind memories of great performances. In one of his later concerts,at dawn in Nehru Park in Delhi,those who attended remember it started raining just as he was about to begin. The elderly Joshi carried on. Umbrellas were unfurled,a sea of nodding black; people slowly became soaked in the rain. But Joshi carried on. For two hours,they say,his voice cut through the rain. Nobody moved.
