From the ether, back into the ether

Requiem for World Space Radio
It was that fantastically faceted thing – many things to many people. My friend Subbu had it tuned to the Carnatic music channel Shruti. Mr Reddy next door had Spandana channel pipe in Telugu music. Rabindra Sangeet, Natyasangeet, Pop, Jazz, love songs... no one was left out of its ambit.
My friend Meenal had it installed in her kitchen – she said she completed the daily chore of cooking in a haze of happiness because of the music.
I had it fixed at Gandharv, with occasional forays into the Western Classical and the Hindi film song channel Farishta and the Marathi channel.
From all these channels poured forth (WITHOUT ADVERTISEMENTS – I MEAN IN THIS DAY AND AGE, THAT ITSELF DESERVES A STANDING OVATION) music of every hue, to gladden the hearts of every kind of music lover, from the esoteric to the mainstream.
Within channels too, the range and depth was fantastic. Gandharv alone, which played Hindustani Classical, would bring you, within a 24-hour cycle, the old gravelly masters, the middle order stalwarts, and the young and restlessly experimenting newbies. Long, uninterrupted interviews would allow you to feel as if you had visited Gangubai Hangal in (what would turn out to be) her last weeks of inhabiting this earth before she re-joined the celestial singers. Shrinkhla, Gaurav...a few other names – passionate, dulcet-voiced RJs of the channel, introduced you to music without burbling foolishly like FM radio types. When they interviewed musicians, they asked nuanced, difficult and demanding questions, that gave the musician a chance to search inward for an honest answer and to reveal himself and herself in an enlightening, introspective way. It was such a soothing counterpoint to the shouting show off fest that passes off for TV journalism and interviewing and entertainment. Why talk about them in the same breath, actually!
For me, the journey was all the more wonderous because World Space Radio’s Gandharv channel introduced me to musicians who I had never heard of. Not because they were obscure, but because the Hindustani ocean is vast, and my little boat is small. I had only gone that far out in it, and thought that I had heard a good representation of it all, from when I was 12. Turns out that there were oceans and then some more oceans. Ustaads and Pandits and Vidushis singing and playing their hearts out, weaving a magic spell of tradition interlaced with maverick energy. I loved it. I would leave it running through the night, and the yamans and the malkaus and the jaijawantis and the darbaris would wash over my conscious and unconscious self, working their way into my dreams, my REM, conveying me deliciously into dawn with Bhairavis and Bhoopalis. I am a sound sleeper, and yet the music entered my soul and sinews and senses. On quiet working afternoons, Kumar Gandharva would sing a Bhimpalas, followed by a very young Pushkar Lele’s Madhmad Sarang perhaps. A sombre sweet Patdeep would pour forth, as you cracked your knuckles and contemplated coffee. Deep sometime at 3 am (my friends and family know that it is usually impossible for me to be awake or awakened at that hour), Debu Chaudhuri’s sitar would render a Kaushi Kanada that is nothing short of heaven itself. Not heavenly, but heaven itself. It would wake me up, bolt awake, and take me on a trip – visual, mental, emotional, philosophical – that was like actually visiting another dimension. That piece of music actually gave me a hangover the next morning – not the headachy kind, but an abiding feeling that you have visited or been visited by something from outside of the physical world.
Even one of my dogs was hooked to the music. He would quietly let himself into my room, settle on the bed at listening level, and sigh. I kid you not. Sigh, contented. His only request was no Shehnai and no couple of women singers – who I would promptly switch off because I agreed with him on that. And the Debu sitar piece would have him restless and transported, just like me.
And then there was the mail in the in-box – the American owners or whoever had filed for bankruptcy, and India would not feature in their plans even if they regrouped. Which left me muttering: Unless of course they re-grouped into a mall company or a cosmetic or lingerie-brand, I suppose – oh then India would feature alright. 31 December, the World Space Radio Receiver went quiet. ‘No signal’ said the display.
However prepared you may be for ‘things change’, I must admit I was not prepared for it at all. I spent a week in a daze of deprivation. I have now pulled out my MP3s and CDs, but it’s no fun to choose your own music, from your gang of usual suspects, and put it predictably on. However, we are making do. Jugnu my dog came in today and did the sigh, and fell asleep, and then did that running in his dreams thing that dogs do, to the rhythm of Hariprasad’s Bageshri gat in madhyalaya. But intriguing and unknown (to me till Gandharv brought them into my house) names and compositions have gone back into the ether. And I am so much poorer.