I first saw him at a semi-outdoor recital by Sayeeduddin Dagar here in Pune, sometime early in 1986.

He sat at the rear, taking in the strains of dhrupad, moving his head and hands in a knowing way, keeping time with his foot, and obviously enjoying himself. He was a portly man with an imposing beard, looking every bit like a wise man from Biblical times. The impression stayed with me until I finally met him—with no idea beforehand that it would be the same man—a year later in the music room at Muktangan in Sahakarnagar. He was sitting on a small but thick and soft mat, tuning a tamboura in that inimitable way of his, and surrounded by other tambouras and harmoniums in that musty, darkish room.

Sriram Devasthali. The man I consider one of my gurus in Indian vocal classical music.

How I recall fondly those Sunday mornings in the Music Room, its wooden shutters open to the gentle breeze blowing in from the hills behind, the late morning sun burning the yard, birds chirping in the garden. Guruji would sit on his large pillow-sized mattress, while I would gently pluck the tamboura strings, tuned exquisitely by him, and laid horizontally in front of me, with its neck cradled in my left hand. Then he would begin, taking me through the paces.

For almost a decade, Guruji taught vocal classical music to dedicated students from abroad, who came from diverse backgrounds, and for whom Indian music became as vital as food. They would seek him out. The most notable was the American jazz musician, Warren Senders, who learned khayal from him. Another was Steve Gorn, the talented American flautist. Devasthali has that kind of rapport.

At these sessions, as on any occasion, he wore pajamas and a kurta. He was, and is, always himself, never putting on airs. He did tell me though that he was a shagird of the late Gajananbuwa Joshi and had been groomed also by Gajananbuwa’s illustrious father, Antubuwa. There were other teachers as well. But his idea of voice culture is his own: a singing voice must be pleasant, open, uncontrived. His voice is what one might call a resonant baritone. Capacious, with a pleasant timbre. Supple, often soothing, but always alert, with surprises in store for the unwary. Just as a writer indulges in a fine turn of phrase, he knows how, and when, to turn a musical phrase. His tastes are eclectic, having imbibed the Gwalior, Jaipur and Agra styles in which Gajananbuwa himself was trained. He’s fond of recalling a recital that earned his guru’s enthusiastic praise.

In a private moment, he told me why he had stopped performing in public. He was keen to pass on all his learning to his talented young sister-in-law. But, as fate would have it, she fell ill and met an untimely death. He was devastated, and in some ways, never fully recovered from the blow. Since then, he gave up performing, and resigned himself to teaching others—an achievement he can be proud of.

I feel lucky to have had the chance to learn at least something from him. As I look back, I can’t help feeling that, in spite of his painful loss, he was more than generous with the gems he gave me.