At first glance, Ustad Hamid Kasmi* and Lindsay Lohan don’t seem to have much in common. He sports no high fashion and totes no body guards. In fact, Kasmi Sahib with his bright orange kurta, an oversized vermillion tikka, and conspicuous prayer beads, could be a pujari. Being firmly established as one of the world’s foremost sitarists secures him a hallowed place in the classical Indian music scene.
In other words, Kasmi Sahib is a big deal – a marquee name whose presence might lend star power to the events he attends. We thought. We invited him to attend the Hindustani classical music contest we have been organizing for 21 years, an “America’s Got Talent” sort of event, without the glitz. Instead of pop songs, the 90 plus contestants here have chosen a type of music that most of us listen to only fleetingly and accidently – maybe in a yoga class. This contest gives these students a rare venue where they and their art are placed center stage.
The contest was in full swing when Kasmi Sahib arrived. He entered the hall with aplomb, arms wide open in a sort of “carry on, carry on” encouragement, clearly a man well aware of his own importance. He sat down on the floor, front and center. The contest proceeded more or less uneventfully, if slightly more self-consciously, for the next two performances. Kasmi Sahib was clearly engaged, swinging his head to the tunes, clapping his hands to beat.
Then the third contestant, a teen sitarist, went on stage. She announced that she was going to play raag Bihag, and went on to perform expertly, with her father accompanying her on the tabla. She mesmerized the hall. Before the MC could announce the next contestant, however, Kasmi Sahib, still seated among the audience, asked the student what raag she had played. She repeated “Bihag.” We held our breaths. Was he going to praise the young musicians, possibly tilting the opinion of the judges? Was he going to challenge her in public?
Kasmi Sahib did better: he declared this was not raag Bihag, and as the whole room sat in stunned silence, hopped on to the stage with his thick Oxfords, asked the girl for her sitar, and started to give her a lesson in the differences between the various ragas. The girl and her father, both graceful in their public tutoring session, let him have the stage he demanded. The maestro then tried to sing a few notes, his voice initially faltering. A local musician in the audience, who had opened the competition with a stunning bhajan, tried to offer vocal assistance, only to be rebuffed with a sharp “Who are you? Get out! Get out!”
The contest seemed usurped. Kasmi Sahib had the stage, the mic, and the seniority. In reverence for the accomplished artist, in fear of making a scene, and entrenched in the hospitality tradition of India, the organizers held back and waited – waited to see how this would play out. Fortunately, he sensed that he might be exhausting his welcome after a few minutes, and stepped off the stage. But he couldn’t resist making a speech. He asked the audience if they wanted to hear him explain the ragas. They responded with silence – a sort of hesitant, unsure silence, mixed with curiosity at the unfolding scene. The man at the mic continued to talk randomly, at one point claiming to be 80 years old, then correcting it to 75. He is in his mid-fifties. Mercifully, after about 5 minutes of rambling, he relinquished his perch.
He went back to his spot on the floor, and started drinking from a Starbucks paper cup. We assumed it was coffee.
The organizers huddled. We had on our hands an honored guest, an esteemed artist – and a loose cannon. Should we give him the mic again at closing ceremony? Would he drag the weary day beyond the contracted hours? Would it be too public an insult to not let him speak? Should we protect the event or save his –and possibly our– face? The ethics of hospitality prevailed again, and after all the contestants had performed, we asked him to say a few words again.
Kasmi Sahib made it to the stage without trouble, but once there, stumbled to maintain his balance. He repeatedly referred to himself as a judge, forgetting that he was there as a guest. He hailed the students, commended the organizers, and then landed upon vociferous praise for the beauty of one of the board members. Unlike Obama’s ode to Kamala Harris’ good looks, however, Kasmi ji failed to note our colleague’s contributions to the cause at hand. The maestro ended his speech with a claim that he had a plane to catch. Finally, a welcomed lie.
I have never understood why we accept bad behavior from our stars, from Hollywood to Chennai. Does their talent buy them the prerogative to public buffoonery? Or are they just a tough package deal? Is it something in the artistic personality that lends itself to unconventional behaviors?
Among Indians, we have the added complication of reverence for our elders, teachers, and superiors. I myself have experienced anxiety and stomach aches before taking dance classes with renowned teachers. The insults and humility doled out were expected and readily tolerated, as they were deemed to be just the way of the Indian guru. It is little wonder that those placed on such pedestals would eventually abuse their perch.
Am I overthinking this? Maybe the famous are only as prone to slipups as the rest of us. Maybe we are all capable of getting drunk at the wrong hour and flinging open our closets in public. Only we don’t get invited to make speeches to a room full of admirers.
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* In a continued practice of (possibly misplaced) civility, I have obscured the artist’s name. Online postings live a long time — and in case of a personality change, I certainly wouldn’t want his reputation to outlive his behavior.