Tohmat-e-chand apne
zimmedhar chale
kisliye aaye thhe kya kar chale
(I leave, taking with me all the
onus and blame
What I accomplished is not that
for which I came)
In 1978, a young French woman, Laurence Bastit, arrived in Delhi as part of France’s initiative to provide translators and interpreters. She began teaching at the Jawaharlal Nehru University. In 1979, she was coaxed by a friend into attending a Dhrupad concert by the Ustads, Nasir Zahiruddin and Nasir Faiyazuddin Dagar, my uncle and father.
As the concert began at Max Mueller Bhavan, Laurence was seated in the last row. Towards the end, she had moved to the first. After the concert, she made bold to go backstage and meet the singers who had mesmerised her with their meditative and powerful music, which for the large part is abstract and not dependant on words. She told my father Faiyazuddin Dagar that she wanted to meet him again.
The next day, Laurence turned up at our home in Nizamuddin, asking if they would teach her. “I am taking Hindi and yoga classes. Besides, I do French interpretation for a living. I don’t know if I’ll do justice to the rigours of this demanding art of yours,” she said. My father told her to set aside her anxieties and come for the classes.
Laurence Bastit
I was 11 when Laurence walked into our home; I barely registered her presence. She later told me about the day she was invited to dinner for the first time by my father. In their music room, the entire spread had been laid out on the floor on newspapers. Laurence stood there perplexed and my father told her, “This is the Indian dining table. Come join us.” That she would become an integral part of the family and its idiosyncratic ways and serve the cause of Dhrupad till she breathed her last on July 14, 2020 (French National Day), at the age of 75, was something neither she nor my father could have predicted then.
Born in Paris in 1945, Laurence was the sixth and last child. Her father died soon after she was born, and her mother raised the children on her own. Save for a few months in Paris when her mother was ill and died in 1981, Laurence lay down her roots in Delhi. If Dagarvani Dhrupad, which has continued unbroken for 20 generations, is like a banyan tree, Laurence grafted herself in like a determined branch.
Enthusiastic learner
She had a keener ear than voice. She recognised this and remained undeterred in her enthusiasm to soak herself in the experience of Dagarvani Dhrupad. I learnt from her the art of listening: she taught me to lend an ear to the most mundane, and sometimes even unacceptable, uninteresting conversations.
She lingered on in the house after class. First, it was for a few hours, then she would be there the whole day. She started calling my father Guruji and my mother, mummyji. We began calling her Laurence baaji (older sister). She joined the many baajis in our household — I have five sisters and many aunts.
Realising that she could help, Laurence began to pitch in with correspondence and organisational matters. Like a pakhawaj player offering rhythmic support, she melded into the role of a manager. From 1982 to 1984, three of the first Dhrupad Samarohs were organised in Jaipur — the city where the legendary founder of Dagarvani, Baba Behram Khan, had breathed his last. Laurence played a pivotal role in organising them. In 1984-1985, Dhrupad Society was registered in Delhi with Laurence as founding member and secretary. She became the force behind the many Dhrupad Samarohs and baithaks across India and the world.
Laurence quickly evolved into an excellent tanpura player and could sit for four to five hours at a stretch. In Dagarvani, two or even three tanpuras are used, and the player has to single-mindedly focus on maintaining a steady and sensitive strumming to inspire the singer to go deeper into a raag.
Ustad Wasifuddin Dagar performing a concert | Photo Credit: Ankit Agrawal
When my father died in 1989, Laurence managed the Dhrupad Society on her own since Bamaji, my uncle, was focused only on singing and teaching. I was then 21, and soon began singing with Bamaji till he passed in 1994. Laurence then became even more involved with Dhrupad and the Dagar family. She was many things to me — friend, sister, mother, grandmother, daughter, all rolled into one.
Yet, Laurence remained a true Parisian at heart, enjoying her wine and an occasional cigarette. A sought-after interpreter in French, English and German, she trained many Indians in interpretation.
The circumstances in which Laurence Bastit died are a metaphor for the kind of times we live in. The weekend prior to July 14, my elder sister Musarrat or Meenu baaji, who had a history of respiratory illness, passed away. But everyone assumed that the novel coronavirus was the reason and our large joint family became Covid-19 suspects.
Laurence was devastated not just by Meenu baaji’s death but also by the divisive discourse in the name of social distancing. While I was in the burial ground performing Meenu baaji’s last rites, my phone rang and I was told that Laurence had collapsed at our home. She had died of grief. In a matter of hours, I lost two people very dear to me.
While a performing musician gets all the accolades, there are many who work behind the scenes to ensure that the musician can focus on his or her art. They often remain unsung. Laurence Bastit came out of nowhere and did more for Dhrupad than I have done by merely singing. I recall how, a few years ago, she told her brother Loic that her true family was the Dagar family.
In the last year of her life, she successfully motivated my younger students to revive the Dhrupad Society that had crept into inaction. After COVID, she said she wanted me to support and strengthen the artiste community.
Laurence’s favourite raag was Sohini and she loved the ‘Jagat Janini’ composition in raag Bhairavi. On Guru Poornima on July 5, when I began a marathon four-hour online session to teach raag Shuddh Sarang to some 30 students worldwide, Laurence commented on our WhatsApp group: “I am not just lying down, I am in your music. The raga seems sometimes like a happy cat offering its back, its paws… for patting.”
I’ll close with the signature couplet of the ghazal by Sufi poet Khwaja Mir ‘Dard’ (1721–1785), whose lines I opened with:
‘Dard’ kuchh maloom hai ye log
sab
kis taraf se aaye the kidhar chale
(Pain, do you know anything
about these people
where did they came from,
where did they go?)
(The writer is a renowned Dhrupad singer)