I grew up in what, in those days, could be called an almost perfectly middle-class Bengali family, one that abided by a set of even more perfected middle-class Bengali values. Long after it was available, we did not have television in our house – my father had almost no doubt in his mind about the power of the 'idiot box' to sway his sons' minds away from their studies. Likewise, the telephone remained an item of considerable luxury. Even amidst these typically frugal settings, however, Bengali families of that era did not stint on spending on a few indulgences. For some, this niche was travel; for others, the performing arts. In our case, it was the cherished family gramophone.
In my mind's eye, I can still clearly see that wondrous contraption. As you opened the wooden box, a white stylus would rise up to greet you, shining in majestic glory. This was a Garrard, which had been a pukkah Londoner till, sometime during the 1960s, it had found its way across the sinful seas to a small corner of our house. There was only one technician in all of Calcutta whom my father ever trusted for repairs, on the few occasions when the need arose. Whenever the possibility of feuds would crop up between us siblings (mostly over watching films), I could never help but wonder to whom amongst us my father would eventually entrust this priceless piece of property.
In my memory, our gramophone was something like Ali Baba's hidden cave: all you needed to do was find the right record, and the Garrard would allow for a sudden stream of magical notes! There were records strewn everywhere in our house – old 78s in dusty boxes; tiny 45s, short and crisp in their content. But my favourites were the 33 1/3s. The covers of most of these included oddly fascinating album art that a listener – certainly this listener – would inevitably forever associate with that particular record and its music. These were mostly photos or portraits of the artists in jovial or 'musically engaged' moods. Of course, there was also the occasional album with exceptionally abstract artwork, for which the connection between the visual and the audio had become a matter of either zero or infinity, depending on the extent of one's imagination.
My father had picked up his love for Hindostani classical music during his college days at Benaras Hindu University, which at the time was quite the haven for North Indian classical music. In those days, he must have been a particularly devout fan of Vilayat Khan, the young sitar maestro, for I recall more Vilayat LPs in our house than any other. One was titled "The Genius of Vilayat Khan"; another said simply, "Ustad Vilayat Khan" and included a princely photograph of the ustad on its cover. It showed the musician's profile in his heyday – a crop of hair combed straight backwards, with a black shawl thrown carelessly across his back. He is sitting straight up, with eyes focused on his sitar but his gaze lost somewhere beyond the instrument.