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A Tribute to Pratima Barua-Pandey (1935 - 2002)
A blithe spirit has flown her mortal nest. And Assam,
nay the earth, will be the poorer for it. There is perhaps
none who has even once listened to Pratima
Barua-Pandey’s soul-stirring songs and not noticed
the purity of that husky voice that celebrated the geets
of the people of Goalpara. As for those who closely
knew this spirited yet childlike woman, the loss is even
greater.
As a young girl, Barua-Pandey used to sit on the grassy knolls of its banks and embalm
her music-hungry soul with the notes and lyrics of the songs of the boatsmen who rode
its waters. Even later, she found in its blue depths the solace for those moments of
nostalgia, when thoughts of her departed father, also her friend, philosopher and guide,
nudged themselves into her mind.
For it was Kumar Prakitesh Chandra Barua or Lalji as her father was popularly known,
who gave her the strength to fight all odds that came in her way of singing the songs of
the people, “so different from those of the bhadralok”. They are human, too, and their
songs are equally beautiful, Lalji used to tell his eldest daughter.
Barua-Pandey’s royal family — whose lineage dates back to the days of Emperor
Jahangir — was in fact aghast when they found the young girl humming rustic ballads.
Many even predicted that if she continued to favour them, she would even lose out on
marriage — for who would wed a girl who sang lokageet, the songs of the masses? But
for the child, thoroughly captivated by the lilting notes that resonated in the air around
her, she was “wedded to music anyway”.
The geet of the Muslim womenfolk who did the chores in the family home in Matiabagh,
those of the mahouts of her father’s hati mahal (elephant camp), of the fishermen who
cast their nets on the Gadadhar held her spellbound and moved her to memorise each
syllable.
The turning point in the young Barua-Pandey’s life came when Bhupen Hazarika visited
Gauripur in 1955. At a jalsa organised on the occasion, the shy young teenager, though
“tongue-tied with fear before the balladeer of such repute”, let her voice and the lyrics of
the lokageet flow with the strings and rhythms of the dutara, darinda and dhuluki. An
enraptured Hazarika, predicting that “this was the voice that would take Goalpariya geet
to great heights”, also lent his unstinted support to efforts to impress on all that
Goalpariya lokageet was a part of Assamese geet.
Hazarika’s prediction was more than realised when Barua-Pandey was awarded the
Padmashree for her pioneering efforts in popularising Goalpariya lokageet. A
documentary made on her, Hastir Kanya, after winning the National Award for best
biographical film in 1997, went on to create waves at the South Asia film festival in 1998.
Its maker, Prabin Hazarika, was, as he says, “deluged with queries on the singer, the
beauty of her voice and the richness of the compositions”.
Lyrics of some well-known songs of Pratima Barua-Pandey
O mor hai hastir kanyare
Tomra gaile ki ashiben, mor mahut bandhu re
Lal gamcha ranga sari re
Lal sari le re moina, lal sari re
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But perhaps it is the land that nurtured the singer in
this extraordinary woman, her serene Gauripur, which
will shed silent tears and miss her the most.
Especially her favourite Gadadhar — the river in whose
quiet flow Barua-Pandey found, all through the ups and
downs of life, what she often used to say, both “peace
and inspiration”.
Born on a Mahalaya day, October 3, 1935, in Calcutta, Hastir Kanya, as she came to be
popularly known, did her early schooling in the city’s Gokhale Memorial School, after
which she returned to study at the Gauripur Girls’ High School. Her early years were, in
fact, spent alternating “between the din of Calcutta and the soothing environs of
Gauripur”. And though she learned Rabindrasangeet at school, Barua-Pandey never
had any formal training in music. “My father’s hati mahal was my music institute, and his
mahout chief, Bhaben Singha Roy, my guru,” she used to say.
Padmashree, Sangeet Natak Akademi awardee, folk singer extraordinaire —
Barua-Pandey’s innocent nature remained ever untouched by fame and acclaim. From
the portals of a “royal” home to a joyful camaraderie with the people, Barua-Pandey was
devoid of ersatz. It was the love shown by the people for her brand of music that
remained her priceless treasure, “closest to her heart”. After all, she had not sung for
“fame but for the pure love of it”.
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