The Rajhans family was devout. They had faith in God and religion. Even so, Bal Gandharva never made a public display of it. An eye for beauty, cleanliness and neatness, reverence for his teachers and parents, devotion to his art, honesty, straightforwardness — these were some of his. While caring for a large joint family, he never once discriminated between his own and others. Although his wife was not particularly good-looking, until nearly the age of 50, he never once was unfaithful to her. Although beautiful women moved about all around him, he never once looked at anyone with a roving eye. Throughout his entire career, he had to witness the deaths of many of his own kin, yet he was not broken. At the age of 33, a burden of a debt of Rs 1.5 to 2 lakhs suddenly fell upon him — and that too inflicted through betrayal, with the sting it carried — yet he did not waver. He did not declare bankruptcy. Working honestly, he even repaid that enormous debt within 6 1/2 years.

The plays ran and earned their income on the strength of Bal Gandharva alone. Even so, all the money was deposited in the bank. People of his household did not ever draw from the company’s money as they pleased. And yet Bal Gandharva discharged the responsibility of the entire family in a fitting manner. He was grave by temperament. Govindrao Tembe once said somewhere, “I consider Narayanrao a cultured man. Because he never speaks about himself.”

Bal Gandharva had a fondness for keeping his clothes neatly folded. He took proper care of all his belongings. Walawalkar once said, “If Narayanrao took as much care of money as he takes of his clothes, he would never fall into debt.” In matters of feeding people, of extending hospitality to them and the like, too, he was extremely generous.

After his father’s death, he gave up paan. After Lokmanya’s death, he gave up tea. Now and then, he used to drink liquor. But once it was noticed that the recording was not turning out well. His voice seemed as though it were torn. At one drinking gathering, on that account, the host said, “Narayanrao, I invite you with affection and you do come. But I feel that you ought not to drink.”

The moment he heard this, the glass of liquor that Bal Gandharva set down in his hand he set down forever. Such was his resolute nature. His liking for both vegetarian and non-vegetarian food, however, persisted. At one time he had a passion for clothes. He had a great deal — from costly silk saris to imported European garments. But then, after 1921, this passion diminished. He took to wearing half-pants and a shirt. After that, under the influence of the Khadi movement, he took to moving about in a khadi dhoti and shirt.

Bal Gandharva had an unerring judgement of people. But in practical matters, who knows why, he turned a blind eye. Any play is built up through the cooperation of many people; this is what is called teamwork in today’s language — of this he was aware. He regarded everyone as his own family. In matters of money, however, he always remained indifferent. Adorning the stage was, as it were, an addiction with him. He was obsessed with beauty. For its sake, he did not hesitate to spend any amount of money. But that the side of expenditure was exceeding the side of income was something he never even noticed. That as an artist he was extraordinary there is no doubt at all. But because of his non-calculating nature, he was forced, in the end, to fall into debt and bid farewell to the stage.

But he had gathered around him the very finest of people and artists. He had the gift of appreciating talent. That is precisely why an artist who came to him would grow still greater. No matter how good some artists were, they had not reached the common people. But once an artist came under Bal Gandharva’s wing, the artist’s name became known throughout the whole of Maharashtra. About Bal Gandharva, rumors were sometimes spread out of envy. But they were utterly baseless. He used to look after his fellow artists. On one engagement, even though his own voice had given out, he adjusted himself to the pitch of a fellow artist. He said, “My presence must not spoil Nanasaheb’s work. I shall look after myself afterwards.”

The debts Bal Gandharva fell into were not at all due to personal extravagance. To make the stage excellent he would spend any amount. He never once used in his private life, thhe perfumes meant for use on stage. Later, when he went bald, it is true that he had fine wigs brought from abroad; but he had them brought not just for himself but for Bodas and Ranade too. That an extraordinary artist like him, who had not even had a formal education, should at the age of 33, honestly repay, on his own strength, the immense debt that confronted him — this must be counted as his greatness indeed. Among the accompanying instruments, he secured a place for the organ in place of the harmonium. By giving classical music a place within the plays, he carried it into every home, on his own strength alone. This achievement of his must surely be reckoned extraordinary.

The popularity he won, he won not merely as a singer but as a singer-actor. He had given the stage a status equal to that of a deity. Even at an ordinary rehearsal place he never once came without wearing a cap. For his roles, he took honest, unceasing pains. Whatever the role, he would become one with it. On the actual day of a performance, he would live like one under a sacred vow. As Khadilkar related, even if sleep did not come in the afternoon, he would lie for two hours simply with his eyes shut. At 4 in the afternoon, he would shave. Then, after bathing, he would sit down for the make-up. The make-up usually took him about 2 to 2 1/2 hours. From the time he began wearing a wig, it would be tied so tightly on his head that, when it was removed, welts could be seen marked upon his forehead. From there he would go into a room prepared specially for him. There would be costumes and ornaments kept ready for each entrance. Until the performance, he would scarcely speak to anyone. After the night’s play, it was the company’s custom to eat pithla-bhaat or khichadi. But Bal Gandharva would make do with the fruit-juice or milk he had taken while the play was going on. Dhondi Jamdar would dress him up in his female costume. Until his own attire was satisfactory, he would not set even a foot on the stage. Because of this, there was a delay in the start of the performance. He would never take part in the vote-of-thanks ceremony held after a charity show. The other actors got rest now and then. But Bal Gandharva never did. For one thing, he was the principal artist. So, the dialogues and songs that fell to his share were greater in number. And he received so many “once more”s that he would truly exhausted.

For the audience watching him, Bal Gandharva was a feast. He never looked coarse but looked like an aristocratic, beautiful woman. for audiences, it felt as though they were seeing the princess of their dreams. The astonishing fact was, once the make-up came off and he stepped out of the role to become Narayanrao, he had no womanliness in his bearing, speech or gestures. Besides, along with his looks, his singing too touched the very heart of the audience. In truth, in his earlier career, his voice had neither been radiant nor far-ranging. Nor even sound. Therefore, a lot of treatment had to be done: fasting of the langhan kind, gargles, steam inhalations, medical treatments — after these, and after disciplined practice was put in, his voice improved and became capable enough to bear the strain of the plays. Not merely capable, but distinctive. Melodiousness of sound, grainy taans, an unhurried steadiness, and the power to flow the voice exactly as he wished — these had become the special hallmarks of his singing. He could take long and far-ranging taans with the utmost ease. Later, as the demands of a role required, he had even mastered forms of singing such as the qawwali, the ghazal, and the thumri. He possessed the magic of creating a fabric of sweet notes and casting a spell over the atmosphere of the theatre. While singing songs based on countless ragas, his voice would move effortlessly through all the notes. Later, with the accompaniment of Thirakwa and Kadarbaksh, his singing began to take on still richer color.

Govindrao Tembe used to say, “Even when Narayanrao moved from one raga into another, one did not feel that the raga had changed; rather, it felt as though a wholly new raga had been created.”

But Bal Gandharva also kept an unerring awareness that, while singing, the emotional flavor must not be lost. His singing took shape according to the occasion. When singing a song of the shringara (amorous) rasa, his voice would turn alluring; whereas when he began to sing a song of the karuna (pathetic) rasa, the audience’s hearts would melt. Contorting the face while singing, gesticulating needlessly, singing in a way unconnected to the characters acting alongside him or to the rasa, taking taans and embellishments of the kind that pass muster in a concert — such things Bal Gandharva never did. As to which song to prolong and which not, there were certain conventions according to the occasion. Bal Gandharva took care to observe those conventions.

It is said that Bal Gandharva trained no disciples. But he had grown so completely one with the stage that he simply never found the time for it. And that is only natural. We do, after all, find the same thing happening in the case of many other artists. The curious part is that he himself cannot be called the disciple of any one particular guru either. He was a self-made, independently gifted, supremely talented singer — that is precisely why he was a gandharva (a celestial musician). He had come into the world already bearing within him a wholly extraordinary artistic gift. Whenever it would heighten the splendor of a particular song or a particular dramatic moment, he would, without the least hesitation, sound even a forbidden, off-scale note in it — and yet it never once jarred. His mastery of rhythm (layakari) was extraordinary. In this way, through his superb singing, Bal Gandharva kindled a love for classical and refined music in the minds of the ordinary spectator and listener. The entire credit for this goes to him alone.

A man cannot come to look like a woman merely by draping a sari. There are any number of obstacles, and they have to be overcome. Even when men put on a woman’s costume, their limbs do not look like a woman’s. The natural growth of beard and moustache does not permit any loveliness. In men, the voice breaks at a certain age; its sweetness is lost. As age advances, the body grows heavy, the belly sags, baldness sets in… there are ever so many such obstacles. And yet Bal Gandharva surmounted these obstacles, and, between the ages of 17 until 35, carried female roles with complete mastery — so much so that the equation “the beautiful woman of our imagination = Bal Gandharva” took firm root in the spectators’ minds.

Moreover, he had also been granted the gift of a natural, God-given beauty. His arms, from elbow to fingertips, were so finely shaped that not a trace of coarse masculinity showed anywhere in them. His teeth were so beautiful that they seemed almost unreal. And while playing a woman’s role, he took such care that his portrayal came off to perfection. He wore the female costume with such grace that the women of society began to imitate him. To drape a sari like his, to wear such ornaments, the bun (ambada) and the gajra (the coil of flowers in the hair) — all this came to be regarded as a mark of refinement and prestige. His feminine form had cast such a spell over the audience that people had come to believe that a real woman, if such there were, ought to look exactly like he did in his female roles. Once he stepped onto the stage, the audience’s eager eyes stayed fixed upon how he spoke, what he said, how he carried himself, how he moved, how he adjusted his sari, what expressions he made.

When a man plays the parts of various male characters, he can make all sorts of changes — fixing on long or white beards and moustaches, wearing different kinds of turbans and caps, or donning different costumes. But Bal Gandharva always had to appear as a woman. And yet, when he played Rukmini he seemed the very wife of the Lord of Dwarka, and when he portrayed Sindhu he seemed a poor, humble woman.

Some people had levelled the objection at Bal Gandharva that he sang the same few ragas over and over and never explored the rarer, uncommon (anvat) ragas. But the truth is that composing a raga perfectly suited to the role and to the moment was exactly what each particular song demanded. Merely displaying variety in his singing was not his aim. He wished to lose himself wholly in the role. He had to take care that the emotional essence (rasa) was not marred. For this, he chose only those ragas that would prove exactly fitting.

Bal Gandharva had no fondness for reading and writing. His writing extended no further than penning a letter to someone and signing his name. Even this was something of a ceremony for him. He would first place a brocade (zari) cap upon his head, and then, with full concentration, write the letter.

To those he wrote to, he would take pains to add salutations and blessings, as befitted their station, for the elders and the young of their household. Gadkari made great efforts to cultivate in him a taste for reading, but did not succeed.

But there is no doubt whatsoever that, all things considered, Bal Gandharva ushered in a new era. Govindrao Tembe writes: “Because of Bal Gandharva, the unwholesome attitude that society held toward the acting community as a whole is steadily fading away.”

Dadasaheb Khaparde used to say: “Because of Bal Gandharva’s conduct, the misconception that society harboured about the acting fraternity has been dispelled.”

The great maestro of music, Alladiya Khan, used to say: “Whenever I feel a longing to hear good singing, I go to a Bal Gandharva play.”

In the course of time, women too began to act in plays. Yet not one of them could make the connoisseurs forget Bal Gandharva. Even in his declining years, he could conjure up an enchanting vision of all the virtues of womanhood.

The debts that mounted over and over upon Bal Gandharva were a kind of taint, a smudge, upon his career. But he wiped such taints with his honesty and this made his image shine bright. And yet, in this long labor of clearing his debts, the contribution of all the artists, well-wishers, advisers and managers who stood by him can by no means be denied.

In the same way, one must say that Gauharbai was a kind of ill-starred eclipse (grahan) that fell across his life. Why Bal Gandharva became so entangled with her, and why the latter part of his life was reduced to such ruin — this can only be called the workings of a thoughtless, unreasoning fate. That eclipse, however, was never lifted.

And yet — this is the one truth that remains: there will never be another Bal Gandharva like him!