Last night I saw someone crash to the concrete under the pedestal I had put him on.

Anyone with a passing interest in Indian classical music would have heard of Mukul Shivputra (MS) or at least his legendary father, the late Pandit Kumar Gandharva (PKG). I have been a diehard fan of PKG's inspiring, innovative and captivating singing style. The son has followed in the father's footsteps, grasping the finer nuances and then effortlessly re-interpreting them whichever way he wants to. He is a creative genius if ever there was one.

MS has been known to live a reclusive life. He has forsaken most worldly possessions and lives somewhere near Dewas with his disciples and his music for company. He gives few concerts and these occasions are eagerly awaited by all his devoted fans. Yesterday was one such event.

He sauntered in, as is his style, as if walking on a thin film of ice. He sat down, tuned his accompanists' instruments (only a tanpura and tabla, as he does not use any harmonium or sarangi). Then he gave his crooked smile seemingly full of disdain for the audience, and the audience in turn lapped it up, as always.

The very first note he picked up was a disaster....he could not sustain it long enough to create an impact. Some listeners thought this was another of the games he loves to play. So we waited for the next...and it was worse. As he went through the motions of the concert his worshipful listeners were moved to sorrow and then to tears. Once or twice, once saw those sparks of his genius that we knew of but they were lost in the all-enveloping darkness of mediocrity that rapidly filled the auditorium.

No, it was not as if you were listening to a newcomer who could not handle notes. It was like Isa Khan sculpting another Taj Mahal and not getting the symmetry of the minarets right... it was like a skillful surgeon failing to open up a simple blister... it was like a van Gogh failing to evoke any sentiment from his canvas.

And our Isa Khan, our van Gogh, our surgeon, our very beloved and hugely respected MS was too drunk to even notice. He just got up and left when he thought it was enough. I had been hearing of his slowly slipping into the abyss for a while now; but it still hit me hard when I actually saw the results.

One can argue that his art is his own and no one has any business either deifying him or criticising him. He has got his genes from his father, his talent from the One Above and then he has polished his craft with his own perseverance and hard work. So, even if he does not come upto our expectations, its none of his problems. He is not a monkey in a circus who has to always please the ticket-paying public.

But, unfortunately, the issue is a little more complicated. However much it sounds presumptuous, he is a custodian of our shared heritage. He has chosen to take up a profession where has picked up the outcome of years of laboured effort by countless individuals. He cannot mess with it. I will not go far enough to pass judgment about his handling of his own genius (which I think is criminal) but I would say he should stop practicing the art which he cannot add any value to.

My words may or may not be able to amply describe my grief as I write this but last night was one which I would like to quickly forget. Quite like those who saw the majestic towers of the World Trade Centre simply crumble to the ground on 9/11.

p.s. Hopes die last. He is singing again on the 10^th. I’ll give my favourite singer another chance. If he fails me again, I have all his albums.