Opinion My phone call with Malini Rajurkar — and why her music resonated with me
She asserted pride in her art form, refused to let it be reduced to simplifications art often is
Malini Rajurkar had several qualities that one associates with stalwart musicians. (X/@ICN_KalaSudha) 
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Like every other listener of Hindustani classical music, I too have a Malini Rajurkar story. As I began to write this tribute, I found myself recalling her rendition of Bilaskhani Todi. Immediately thereafter, Raga Kedar made an appearance. The story that I will narrate is, however, not about her prowess as a vocalist, her command over the tappa or her fondness for Kumar Gandharva and Mallikarjun Mansur. Her renditions of Marathi natya sangeet are also well known; much has been said about the simplicity of the way she carried herself.
Malini Rajurkar had several qualities that one associates with stalwart musicians. That also explains the outpouring of grief on her demise but often we tend to forget stories or incidents that make artists humane. Such stories keep the individual alive beyond the stage. They depict an individuality that bears upon the performer and her performance. As audiences, we don’t have access to the non-artistic side of their personality. The performance is often our only tool to access the artist and her art.
Many years ago, during a public event in Pune, actor Shreeram Lagoo mentioned his fondness for Malini Rajurkar’s deep, meditative singing. The adjectives, deep and meditative, were carefully chosen. They have been evoked repeatedly to describe her gayaki and her demeanour.
I had heard a few recordings but had never been to one of Rajurkar’s live concerts. So when I read in the papers that she was going to present a morning concert in Pune, I was determined to attend. Morning concerts are rare and it would have been a crime to miss a concert of morning ragas by such an eminent artist. Moreover, Rajurkar was not a prolific performer.
I called her residence in Hyderabad to request an interview before or after the concert. It would appear in a local newspaper. She asked a variety of questions including why I would like to interview her and then politely declined the offer. She reasoned that she had stopped giving interviews and if she spoke to me, she would have to entertain others as well. She thought it was an unnecessary distraction. During the conversation, I could hear the sound of the tanpura in the background. Perhaps, I had interrupted her riyaaz. She also asked what I could really write about her music that had not been written before. I don’t think she was being dismissive or arrogant but rather inquisitive about the possibilities that such a conversation offered her and me.
I want to read this exchange as an assertion of her pride in an art form that defies the kind of simplifications that it is often subjected to in a lot of articles and books. In any case, writing about music is not easy. It’s often about making the abstract visible — for the singer to explain and the writer to understand and then translate her ideas into prose.
Some may immediately conclude from this anecdote that Rajurkar was a thinking musician. I think that’s also a simplification. Here was an engaged individual who was thinking about her art (representation of her musical ideas) as well as the art of writing — the challenges involved in translating these ideas. This is the engaged attitude that manifests in her music — and perhaps in other aspects of her life. Before ending the conversation, she had politely remarked – “Mere concert mein zaroor aana” (You must come to my concert). She did not speak to me but her music did then and forever.
The writer teaches literary and cultural studies at FLAME University, Pune
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