Dhondutai Kulkarni, (23 July 1927 – 1 June 2014) was an Indian classical singer from the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana.

 

21/07/2019.

Dhondutai Kulkarni : Indian classical singer

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1. Background information :

Birth name    Dhondu Kulkarni
Born    23 July 1927
Kolhapur, India
Died    1 June 2014 (aged 86)
Mumbai, India
Genres    Khyal
Occupation(s)    Indian classical music
Instruments    singing
Years active    1935 - 2014
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2.Introduction :

Dhondutai Kulkarni, (23 July 1927 – 1 June 2014) was an Indian classical singer from the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana.
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3. Early life :

Dhondutai was born in a Brahmin family in Kolhapur, Maharashtra. Her father initiated her into music. Subsequently she came under the tutelage of Bhurji Khan of the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana. Gaining recognition as a child artiste she became an All India Radio performing artiste at the age of eight. Her training continued under the mentorship of Laxmibai Jadhav and Azizuddin Khan, disciple and grandson of Alladiya Khan, the founder of the gharana. She received most of her repertoire of rare Ragas from Azizuddin Khan. Thereafter, she spent a long number of years under the tutelage of Kesarbai Kerkar, ending up as her sole disciple.
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4. Awards and recognition :

Dhondutai has been awarded the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1990. She was regularly featured at the "Surashri Kesarbai Kerkar Sangeet Sammelan" since its beginnings, she sang last at these concerts.

Journalist Namita Devidayal's book The Music Room chronicles a significant part of Dhondutai's life, music and career. Namita has been one of her students and learned from her over a period of 25 years. The book talks about the life and music of Alladiya Khan, Kesarbai Kerkar and Dhondutai.
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5. Further reading :

    Sur Sangat by Dhondutai Kulkarni, Rajhans Publications,Pune, India, ISBN 978-81-7434-694-0
    The Music Room by Namita Devidayal, Random House India, ISBN 9788184002362

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6. A purist to the core, Dhondutai Kulkarni's legacy is in danger : DNA

A sore throat was reason enough to visit her. I discovered that early enough in my days as Dhondutai Kulkarni's student.

Maybe there'd be no singing lesson that day, but other lessons, just as layered and enriching. Starting perhaps with a homily on the ills of keeping late nights and moving on to nature's medicines and the power of mind over body. She would make tea, measuring exact amounts the precious Nilgiri leaf that made her brew quite unique. And smile as I heaped my two-spoon measure of sugar into my cup, and add just a pinch of it to hers. Always teetering on the borderline of diabetes, she had learned through her stint as assistant in her uncle's ayurvedic medicine factory, to control it through diet and natural ingredients. I would leave her flat feeling much better, a little stick of liquorice from her store of medicinal things in my bag, and find myself humming as I waited to board the train at Borivali.

For four years I was Dhondutai's student. Years marked by long gaps of absence, as my work gave me little leeway. Years during which I learnt the beginnings of a raag, and my normally soft voice could be heard ringing clear beyond her building on to the approach road. I learnt so much more!

For Baiji gave unstintingly of her knowledge. Whether it was voice training, or life skills, she shared it all with her students, going beyond the role of music teacher to draw them into her heart and advise them in diverse ways.

Her own life was the master plan from which she derived her lessons. Her passion for music, her single-minded honing of her talent; her dedication that kept her not only semi-educated but also single; the determination and humility with which she pursued teachers of the Jaipur Atrauli gharana like Laxmibai Jadhav and the more demanding Kesarbai Kerkar were inspirations she shared without any coating of pride. And we, her students, were welcome to derive from the stories that punctuated the music lessons whenever she could discern a voice tiring.

I was surely just an also-ran among her students, many of whom were accomplished enough to accompany her on stage or sing solo. But on the day allotted to me, I knew she would come smiling to open the steel door, let me in and take her place on the divan while I sat on the floor facing her. She would start by leading the notes gradually forward, correcting mistakes, always patient. But soon enough, something would transform in her. Perhaps, it was the backlit window against which she sat, framed by the filigreed leaves of the casuarina tree outside; the expression on her face or the reflection of the sari; but I would divine a grace in her that was not quite of this earth. I have seen it in her during concerts too, where she would be for long moments unmindful of her audience, as if in a divine embrace. But the teacher in her would soon ensure she engaged in a dialogue, so the intricacies of her compositions would be clear to the youngsters present.

Purist to the core, she would chide those who played to the gallery. Music came from the heart and the throat and any facial contortions were but showmanship.

Living as she did by herself, she longed only for the one genius heir who could keep her legacy alive. It was possibly the only disappointment in her life. There cannot be another quite like her. There was only one Dhondutai Kulkarni.

The author is Consulting Editor, Harper Collins India

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7. Dhondutai Kulkarni: Memories of a Forgotten Musician : THE INDIAN EXPRESS

 Dhondutai Kulkarni, who died quietly this month, represented an old world of pure classical singing.

The name Dhondutai Kulkarni draws a blank with most people, including admirers of Hindustani classical music. So, when Kulkarni died of kidney failure in her Mumbai home on June 1, there were not many by her side. No obituaries were splashed in newspapers, and there were no tickers on news channels. Only a few music bloggers remembered the “Gaan Yogini” and circulated her videos on YouTube.

In one YouTube recording, we see a short woman in a maroon Banarasi sari, singing the melancholic Kabiri Bhairav in a full-throated, almost “manly”, voice. She outlines the raag with an elaborate alaap, interlinking it deftly with the bandish and just a few complicated taans (Ustad Alladiya Khan, founder of the Jaipur- Atrauli gharana, had fewer varieties of taans in his repertoire) to arrive on the same in ways we haven’t heard. This piece illustrates the level of dexterity that made Kulkarni a senior musician from the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana.

What is phenomenal also is that her music distinctly reminds listeners of another woman musician, the legendary Kesarbai Kerkar (also a student of Alladiya Khan), whose presence in Indian classical music had wiped out many careers in the first half of the 20th century.

Born and brought up in Kolhapur in Maharashtra, Kulkarni began training under Natthu Khan of the Jaipur Atrauli gharana and followed this by learning from Bhurji Khan, Alladiya’s son, and Azizuddin Khan, Alladiya’s grandson. Her family later moved to Jabalpur in Madhya Pradesh. When Kerkar announced that she would accept one student who would be worthy of her knowledge, Kulkarni’s father made a train journey from Jabalpur to Bombay to meet her. He wanted his daughter to learn from the finest in the field. Kulkarni’s talent did the impossible —  it impressed Kerkar, who took her on as a disciple, the only one she would ever have.
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Kerkar’s eccentric — if not volatile — temperament was as well-known as her genius. Kerkar was paranoid about anyone “knowing” her music and did not appreciate the idea of recording her pieces. She wanted her music to die with her but she trained Kulkarni in her style and, for years afterwards, when the latter sang, listeners would trace the voice of the guru. In her music, Kulkarni preserved the techniques and turns of Kerkar.

*Dhondutai Kulkarni during one of her performances: Source: Rajhans Prakashan

If one listens closely to Kulkarni, one comes across a woman who is performing her music like a prayer, steeped into her guru’s teachings.

It’s heavy for a general listener. But it’s also as if Kulkarni doesn’t care. As far as she was concerned, the audience needed to cultivate their taste and adjust themselves to her music. “There is no attempt to dilute the raag and make it easy for listeners to comprehend. Her music was serious stuff and required a keen ear. She employed finesse and could not stand the idea of flamboyance or a compromise,” says Sanjay Dixit, a private collector of music and Kulkarni’s disciple for more than a decade. He adds that Kulkarni was the only musician who kept the essence of the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana alive in its purest form. One of her specialities was the jod, a compound raag. She could connect five raags and make them sound as one and nobody could spot the patches.

*Dhondutai Kulkrani receiving an award from former President of India R Venkataraman in the presence of actor and playwright Girish Karnad. Source: Rajhans Prakashan, Pune

This was one of the reasons Kulkarni remained on the fringes of the concert circuit. Then, of course, there was Kerkar’s plea from the deathbed in 1977. “Meri vidya ko kabhi raaste pe mat laana” she had said. Kulkarni obeyed, for the rest of her life. Never did one hear a thumri, a daadra, a tappa or any semi-classical piece from her. Kerkar’s thumris, however, were a toast of the soirees of the ’60s, bringing to the fore, her training under Rasoolan Bai.

It doesn’t come as a surprise then that Kulkarni’s few recitals were attended mostly by musicians of other gharanas, the Ustads and their students. “Her music was not always palatable for the aam janta. There are small pockets all over the country where people remember her,” says Namita Devidayal, a journalist, author and Kulkarni’s disciple, whose 2007 book The Music Room was based on her.

Vocalist Shruti Sadolikar Katkar, Kulkarni’s niece and Vice-Chancellor of Bhatkhande Music Institute in Lucknow, says, “She spent her entire life in the service of the music that was gifted to her, showering her students with knowledge that she had nurtured with a lot of struggle. It was so hard to please those gurus and imbibe what they taught from the vast repertoire of the music of the Jaipur gharana.”

The famous Voyager 2 spacecraft sent by the US had taken many objects along with it from the Earth including a few of the best recordings from world over. Kerkar’s blazing Bhairavi was one of them. As Kerkar’s music revolved in outer space, Kulkarni dedicated her life to preserving the guru’s teachings, her ideas that kept her on the margins of popularity but also won her the title of “Gaan Yogini” among those who understood her music.

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 8. Voice from the past : DEEPA GANESH :THE HINDU.

 Dhondutai Kulkarni, the oldest exponent of the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana, is a woman of enormous conviction. At 82, she continues to be an austere practitioner

The 82-year-old Dhondutai Kulkarni tucked herself into the huge, cushiony sofa like a tiny sparrow. Within seconds of entering the room, her keen eyes had measured me with a warm sophistication. As I apologetically admitted to my not-so-chaste Hindi, she cut me short with a sudden burst of Marathi; it was directed to her student of 30 years who was there to serve as interpreter between her and me, in case we had a difficulty with our respective Hindis. “She has a question for you,” he said, Dhondutai reversing our roles in a jiffy. “Now, your questions will perhaps cull out some details from my life, but what about my music? My life is incomplete without my music,” she tells me pointedly. I offered proof of listening to her renditions and promised that I was going to listen to her that evening at the Mallikarjun Mansur Music Festival – “That’s more like it, go ahead with your questions,” she said. Dhondutai Kulkarni — among the oldest living disciples of the unparalleled Jaipur-Atrauli maestro Ustad Alladiya Khan and the firebrand Kesarbai Kerkar – was hardly the sparrow she looked. It didn’t take too long to figure out that she was a musician with sturdy conviction.

For a man of his times and circumstances, Dhondutai’s father Ganpatrao was phenomenal. “Undoubtedly,” agreed Dhondutai, whose life and music is a tribute to him. Ganpatrao, a school teacher who was deeply passionate about music, decided that his first born would learn music. “In those days, Brahmin girls didn’t go to school, imagine learning music and that too from a Mohammedan – it was blasphemy!” Dhondutai’s mother wasn’t too happy with the idea; she tried resisting in her own mild ways, but who could speak against Ganpatrao? “She had no choice but to relent. When my father was getting ready to send me to learn dance, my mother was horrified and threatened to leave for her parental home. My father dropped the idea,” she giggles. A man of progressive vision, Ganpatrao took his wife for outings and even forced her to learn tables. “My mother would fret, frown and grumble, but eventually she did learn them.”

In Kolhapur, where Dhondutai grew up, the arts flourished; it was the seat of music, dance and literature. It was here that Dhondutai had her early training from Ustad Alladiya Khan’s son, Ustad Bhurji Khan, a fine teacher. Mallikarjun Mansur, Pandit Khanetkar and many others learnt from the Ustad. “Our house was open to all. We used to have such intense discussions on music. Even with his meagre earnings and a family of five to support, my father never hesitated to extend help. Mansurji was married by then and had children. On seeing his passion and thirst for knowledge, my father told him to concentrate on his music and have food at our place. He was an unusual man?,” Dhondutai reminisces, filled with gratitude.

Dhondutai was also a woman ahead of her times. As she got more and more immersed in her world of music, she decided not to get married. “I realised that one can pursue only a single goal in life, particularly a woman. I would be unhappy without my music, and my father agreed.” Ganpatrao however, told Dhondutai that in case of a change of mind, she had to have the honesty to tell him. ‘I don’t want to die with that guilt, he told me. Anyway, such a situation never arose,” says Dhondutai. “That I decided is one thing, but do you know marriage was never on the cards for me? It was music and spirituality,” she says.

“My life was full of difficulties. When Bhurji Khan saab died in 1950, I went into a terrible depression. Where would I find another teacher of my gharana? I got plenty of playback singing offers, but my father was firm that I should pursue only classical music. When the formidable Kesarbai Kerkar agreed to take me as her disciple, I can’t tell you how happy I was,” she relives the moments. With this, her father sold their house and land in Kolhapur and moved bag and baggage to Bombay.

The day Dhondutai landed in Bombay she had to provide singing accompaniment to Kesarbai. Having heard of her legendary temper and fiery tongue, Dhondutai had her trepidations. They went to her house with a plate full of fruits, flowers, sweets and a small packet with money. “Remove that cover,’ the empress pronounced sternly after scanning the plate with her hawk-like gaze. “If you are keen to give it, the door is open you may leave,” she had said without mincing words. “Gujarathis will pour money at my feet. But I want to teach some one deserving. Damn your money!” she had said in her characteristic ruthlessness. But as Dhondutai recalls, in her 11 years of association with Kesarbai, not once was she treated badly. In fact, she would often request Dhondutai not to bring her music to the streets. “I have kept my promise to her. Even when I was in difficulty, I never made my music commercial. I have practised and taught in a manner befitting my great gurus.”

With all her love for Kesarbai, Dhondutai’s face goes red when she thinks of how Kesarbai put her character to test. At the slightest opportunity, she would begin to abuse her earlier gurus. Unable to tolerate it any longer, Dhondutai stopped going for her music lessons. Of course, Kesarbai sent word and this what she had to say: “Now, I can die in peace. If someone speaks ill of me, you will be there for my defence.”

That evening as she sang an exquisite Phulashree, one could clearly see how Dhondutai had shaped her own of the many powerful musical temperaments she was influenced by. Her rendition, still having strong traces of its rich melodic content, bordered on the spiritual. She knew, she wasn’t her best; but she was determined to demonstrate what she was to an audience which probably hadn’t heard her. And she did.

The End.

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