It is through the flapping of a feathered individual, that I came to be aware of “it” for the first time.
A baby house sparrow it was. Sitting on the damp wooden windowpane of our rented home, she was brushing off the extra drops of rain-water from her sodden little body, while composing “it”…beyond sound. The infrasonic rhythm of that seemingly calculated moves by her, made the phenomenon “visible” to my “just-getting-conscious” eyes.
MUSIC, thus, first seeped into me through sight. Which, in the coming years would prove itself to be the star-crossed lover of mine. With whom my ill-fated romance would develop more in separation, more as tragedy.
However, consciousness gradually evolved thereafter to finding “it” in places typically not appreciated.
Like, when my aunt used to put seasonings into the hot oil. The popping of the spices in accordance with the spluttering sound was felt nothing less than a symphony to me. Or in the afternoon, when I was forced to go to sleep after our rice-packed lunch. When, my playful world was supposed to be streamed into the tranquillity of sleep, random events from the surroundings- be it a wet rubber sandal squelching across the floor or a frog’s desperate cry while seized by a snake somewhere around our fence or a quilt-maker advertising a tempting offer of a “end-of-the-season” discount at quilt making across the gully, in a ridiculously subdued voice with brushing across the strings of his harp-like cotton splitter machine. All of them used to keep the musicality of my childhood intact by overruling the rigid time-tables of a strict upbringing.
Is it not the basic instinct of music to set the moments free?
…………
One day my father bought in a wooden box, claimed to be making music. It had two systems, working in parallel. There was a part consisting of two or three cardboards folded in a layered way, serving as an air chamber which was to be pumped up with one hand. And there was a string of black-n-white finger-looking keys to be pressed gently to bring out music from it. I heard adults calling it a Harmonium. And as children usually try to figure out the meaning of an unknown word phonetically, I initially associated the box with jewellery! Because “har” & “moni” signify necklaces and gems respectively in my mother tongue. But by no stretch of the imagination could I comprehend its link with them! Such imaginings!
With little time and patience spent, my expertise in playing the harmonium developed. And with that grew my love for making music. At dusk, when the air of our neighbourhood used to got suffused with the sound of booming conches (a Hindu ritual to welcome the night), tipping across the black and white zebra-keys of my music-box was the only ritual in the otherwise communist evenings of our home. Practicing variations of staccato or melisma with the seven Indian musical notes, was one of the real joys of my childhood. Bit by bit, I learnt how to bind the sargams into a melody. Then one fine day, my stern-faced music teacher assigned me with my first song! It was a Tagore song. As most Bengalis do, I also started my cultural journey with him only! I learnt the tune with memorizing the poet’s words minutely-
“Graam Chhaara Oi Ranga Matir Poth/ Amaar Mon Vulay Re!”
(“That Crimson Path Beyond The Village/ O It Enchants My Heart!”)
I was eager to show off my achievement to my father! He was a terrible singer. But had a great sense of synchromesh between tune and words, what in fact, elevates a piece of composition to a soul-touching song. He listened patiently to my “parrot singing”…then tried to make me grasp the “aesthetics of rusticity”, which the song sings about. “Singing every word is necessary”, he explained “to bring out the beauty of vastness and simplicity of rural Bengal”. Little did I understand the depth of his words at that age. But a question came to my mind for which I still am searching the answer.
What carries the music? Is it the words? Or the tune? Or both?
And the music teacher got fired.
…………..
“NO. It is the tune, the notes, the melody which embody music”, my second music teacher said. She was a trained Hindustani Classical singer and was very strict about the accuracy of ‘taal’ (rhythm) & ‘thaat’ (the different amalgamation of the seven main musical notes).Every Saturday, there used be a musical sitting with her, when she would taught me the various Indian Ragas. Their nuances. How every raga appeals to a particular emotion, a time or a season. YAMAN, the first raga I learnt is associated with Śṛṅgāra rasa (the aesthetics of love, beauty & delight). Then one by one BHUPALI, KAFI, JAUNPURI, BRINDABANI SARANG and so on. One day, she handed over a cassette to me. It was a collection of renditions on different Ragas by different ustads. I was advised to listen to them thoroughly and imitate their gayaki (the style of singing). I found it very peculiar at first! There was no clear division of sargams, no clear pronunciation of words of the bandish ( couplets). Rather the singing resembled the buzzing of a hornet!
“Well that is music!”, exclaimed my teacher. “Words are merely the carrier of a musical composition; you just try to feel how the ambience of a particular mood is created”. But why then, I liked singing raga Bihag the most? It is no doubt a beautiful melody. But what mused me to practice it repeatedly, was the romanticism of intimacy described by its bandish-
“Lat uljhi suljha ja baalam
haathon mein mehandi lagi hai mori
Maathe ki bindiya bikhra gayi mori
Apne haath sajaa jaa baalam
Pag paijhaniya uljha gayi mori
Apne haath lagaa jaa baalam”
(My tresses got tangled—come O my beloved! gently untangle them!
I cannot do it myself, as the bosom of my hands is adorned with henna!
The bindi upon my forehead has slipped and scattered,
Come O my beloved to set it right with your own hands!
The anklets around my feet got twined,
Come O my beloved, to set them free with your gentle touch!)
So, words or tune? The riddle went on!
….……….
I started feeling in the beauty of it little by little- the beauty of Indian classical music. The nuances of different gharanas (schools) of Hindustani classical music. And a bit of the peculiarly beautiful style of Carnatic classical music. In the latter’s case it was by listening to the recordings only. With that, increased my time spent on practice. Practicing alaap (the introductoryslow rhythm-less section of singing a raga) was my favourite. It was like tasting around at the starters’ corner in a buffet before the main course starts! It was like the initial moments of knowing a lover’s body, with sudden unintentional nervous touches…
Now it was all about the teach-n-taught! But there are other various ways through which music oozes into a child’s world.
In winters, my aunt used to go to kirtans, sometimes taking me along. It’s a musico-religious event, organised by various vaishnavite sects of Bengal. Subject-matter was mainly the romance between Krishna & his beloved Radha or the sorrows of human life. In between of those emotionally charged performances, batasha (tiny biscuits made out of sugar) used to be distributed as prasad. To collect them devotees would rush to the points joyously, where the blessed food were tossed upon. Then the very next moment they would sank into tears! Because this time it was a song about separation! Or may be about how priceless the human life is and how foolishly we are ruining it by ”running” after worldly illusions instead of chanting the name of Hari(god) ! It was quite an amusement to watch my aunt sobbing while savouring the batashas! “How does it taste, pishi? The batashas with tears? Sweet? Salty? Bitter?” Like life?
Kirtan was completely different from what I was taught. It didn’t have refinement of classical music. There was no deliberate quest for accuracy. There was a kind of rustic element; but it was not similar to the intellectual version of rusticity of Tagore. The songs didn’t need engineered alignment of tune to the words. The tunes themselves carried the essence of rusticity effortlessly. In fact, they smelt of soil…very fertile.
Music does have geography too then!
One more time, “it” used to feel like soil. This time it was a bit “flooded”.
“now you sing a song!”, I would demand in a “ganer lorai” (musical play) during the power cut hours in the evenings. The demand was rather a mischief, coming out of an urge to make fun of my aunt’s out-of-tune singing. And there she would go in an unpolished voice, occasionally taking a sorrow-filled deep breath-
“Majhi Baiya Jaao re…
Okul Doriyaar majhe, Amaar Vanga Nao Re Majhi
Baiya Jaao Re
Sikhha Dikhha Na Hoite Aage Korchho Biya
Tumi Bine Khote Golaam Hoile
Gaaiter Taka Diya
Re Majhi Baiya Jaao Re”
( O Boatman, Row On…
In the midst of the boundless sea, my boat lies broken,
O boatman, Row on…
Before you had gained learning or wisdom, you chose to marry.
Now, because of that you have become a slave,
Having paid with your hard-earned money.
O boatman, row on…)
There was no elegance, no urbane sophistication but only a natural flow of simplicity with a depth of a perennial river. So this time it was the tune…singing out the music of melancholia. Empowering an illiterate poor widow to mourn out the grief of not having a descent education. An unhappy early marriage. The untimely demise of her spouse. Giving out a chance to her…to cope with a Fate embedded in poverty and sorrow. This time, it is the tune carrying the cathartic words to a person…without words.
The adult me later found out the genre. It was one of the Bhatiyaali song, which usually used to composed and sung by the Boat Rowers of Ganga-Brahmaputra-Meghna flood plains of undivided Bengal.
The songs of the Subaltern.
The music of survival…
…………….
Then one day, poverty came to live with us too. Ours was the Multidimensional Poverty. Centred around the absence of a mindful, sensitive feminine presence that gives out a purpose to a family. I guess no amount of financial aid from even World Bank could have saved us!
I was, as usual, practicing in the evening. It was a gloomy monsoon evening. Rain was pouring down heavily outside. So I decided to practice raga Miyan Ki Malhar. As it is said to evoke cloud and rain when sung by the legend Tansen. There I went-
“Bijuri Chamake Barse Re, Jiyara Tarse
Bijuri Chamake Jiyara Tarse.
Megha Barse Chham Chham Chham”
(As Lightening Streaks Across The Sky, My Heart Aches With Longing…
O My Heart Aches With Longing As Lightening Flashes Across The Sky…
The Rain-Laden Clouds Pour down as Ringing Like My Anklets…Chham Chham Chham…)
The rain was splattering onto our tin-roof heavily. And the sound was far from being the honey-coated tinkling of anklets. On the top of that, the rain-water was leaking from the roof and because of that the veranda was nearly submerged in water. And I was busy in monsoon-musing…till the notes bring out the aesthetics of irritability…the nuances of the Annoyance gharana.
“Would you stop?”, My father yelled at me. He was raging with frustration and very naturally could not bear the dual effect of monsooning!
MUSIC IN POVERTY. MUSING IN POVERTY. MUSIC OF POVERTY. MUSING THE POVERTY. MUSE. MUSIC. MUSE. MUSIC. SHHH…
POVERTY OF MUSIC!
Yes! That day I hit the accurate note.
The note of the poverty of music.
The poverty of music while amid the stark realities of human life.
I felt so ashamed of my insensibility that I just stopped practicing. At least openly.(adolescent ego!)Music just creeped into my very private space. The effect was so intense that I never felt comfortable performing in public…never sang at any events in school, college or university. Music became an act of intimacy for me…until many years later. Alongside, my father, who bought me the music-box got devoid of music himself. Turned into a man for whom music is all about pretentious bubble.
What to do with music if the muse dies midway?
I feel so blessed that the airy muse died so early in my life. Feel so proud of my father every time I watch the scene of the movie Jalshaghar, where the music-lover landlord unknowingly ‘exploits’ music to overlook every signs of decaying…may it be the fading lamps or a cockroach scrawling in his wine-glass. My father saved me from being an escapist, from loving music blindly. And set strict boundary in my mind so that I can detect where music can just slip into being a mere pleasure principle from being a life-saving medicine to soften the harshness of reality…“when needed”.
……….
But lines do get blurred when love enters into your life.
It was a sultry September afternoon. The phone rang. And as I picked up the phone, there was no hello or other introductory words. Rather an extremely melodious male voice got heard over singing Leaving On A Jet Plane, with several repeats of this line-
“I hate to wake you up to say goodbye”
“Oh! It was that boy I met the other day! Why is he singing that line again-n-again even at the very first calling? Is he afraid of losing me?”
No. Certainly not. It was one of those common mannerisms that music traditionally provides you to deceive people!
However, I liked his melodious voice. And also the coordination between his shoulder & neck, which he used to rotate at sharp 90 degree to communicate bystanders! In a few days, It became a routine that he would call me at night and would sing a dozen of songs from various backgrounds. He introduced me to world of Band music, Blues, Jazz, Country. I was discovering a new culture through its music. A new kind of style. Different rhythms. Celebration of off-beats. Unique way of syncopation. Different from what I knew till date. To be precise, the songs hold so much freedom!
“If music be the food of love…
Play on!”
The concert lasted for a couple of months. Then ended in a peaceful silence. “Peaceful”, because, music got rid of the task of carrying on a deceitful romance. A deceitful love.
And the boundary got even more stronger.
But I found a new muse. This time wearing a quiet, gloomy face. I picked up a Mouth Organ. Tried again-n-again to bring out music with my mouth shut. Blowing in-n-out. And in that quest my lips got healed.
………….
There is a strange difference between making music with your vocal or without. I sad realisation I came across. That, people are more accepting to music while produced through mechanisation. That, we are less sensitive to a tune if it lacks direct human involvement. That, the jealous eyes get softened when a perfectly tuned voice flips into a perfectly hit chord. Perhaps that is reason behind so much spoofing of classical singing in Ray’s films. While, at the same time, he is the same person who used Ravi Shankar’s sitar so magically to arouse various emotions. I realised the subtle truth behind the line-
“Tumi kemon kore gaan koro hey gunee,
Ami obaak hoye suni kebol suni…”
( How do you Sing O gifted one?
I listen, only listen with Wonder…)
That, there must be a sharp tint of hatred in that wonder.
Perhaps, had I played raga Malhar in violin that monsoon evening, my father would have been less irritated and more ready to assimilate music into poverty.
Sad yet True.
……….…
Do different people bring different kinds of music in your life?
Do different people bring different kinds of music in a Nation’s life?
Yes, they do.
Since, people coming into a Nation’s life is generally not spontaneous, rather often political and violent, in latter’s case the “bringing” is more complex and so more beautiful.
As I told my illiterate aunt got me the chance to know the music, born out of backwardness. Likewise a friend of mine acquainted me with the historicity of music. It is because of him, I got to know how a tiny section of some alien, violence-makers added a distinct smell to our native tunes. Got to know that the love between Radha & Krishna can be so sonorous and deep, even in an Other’s tune, even in an Other’s tongue.
It was like seeing two civilizations making love after a violent quarrel.
The whole spectrum of semi-classical Indian music got awakened to me. I was amazed at how sensually they make use of the pronunciation of ‘h’…how aromatically. Fell in love with the nazakats (elegance)of Ghazal, Thumri, Dadra. The music of the courtesans-the music of the fallen ones…their yearning for acceptance, validation, love-
“ Aaz Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo
Yu Hi Pehlu Mein Baithe Raho
Aaz Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo…”
(Don’t Insist On Leaving Tonight,
Just Keep Sitting Here, Nestled In My Arms,
Don’t Insist On Leaving Tonight Dear)
……..……
There is a fine line between music and noise…
As they say.
That fine line which I did smash that monsoon evening. In my quest to synthesise a melody, perhaps I intensified the noise and cacophony, my father was suffering from inside. I, perhaps, breached into the solitude of his privacy.
Breach of Privacy…
Music is ‘immensely’ capable of doing that. Unfortunately.
As is happening to me right at this moment! A glitzy Bollywood item number is trying forcibly to get into my space, while I am struggling to be in a meditative mood…meditating Music.
Monica…a..a…a….
O my darling……
Parap…parap…parap….parap…
Tara…Tara.. Tara.. Tara.. Tara…
Monica…Music is…..Monica…O my darling…Music is something….Monica…parap…parap..
Parap…parap…Something very serene…tara..tara…tara..tara…
Umm..Music is you know…ummm…something close to your heart…Monica…..
Music is…parap…parap…parap…parap…parap…
Tara…Tara…Tara…Tara..Tarara…
Music is…O my darling…..!!!
Well! Music is more close to your ears than your hapless heart! It must, first, obey the rule of Physics…then has to submit to your biology…before it can reach up to the philosophy of your heart (if anything left over!)
So there might be moments we all have swallowed down music as noise. Like dealing with a heart-break while listening to your rickshaw-puller souling out a hard-core romantic song! Or may be keeping pace with the latest party song while sitting with a diseased one in an ambulance with its alarm on. Or may be just brooding over that pathetic event of a classic soulful song being reduced to a background music in a soul-less political rally.
But the deadliest ones are those when the music among humans…among us, becomes noise…
That sharp noisy part of it, when the music of a “silent chuckle” hit your deepest wound. So smoothly. So effortlessly. As if humanity is trained for that cruelty itself. Trained every Saturday!
Perhaps this is the case from time Infinity…
Perhaps, it is the way we ‘survive’ as human…by stabbing each other…to enjoy the music of our deepest scream…our deepest cry.
Perhaps that is why the noise of a war cry, of a bomb dropping, of silent dying is so much available, while an instance of a musical endurance is so scarce. It’s so difficult to find a good piece of music from a country war-torn, while the internet is flooded with stories about their Noise…political, economical, social.
We know a land by its noise…
Perhaps this is the way of music too…existing side by side of noise. Over the centuries. Surviving the noise of a war, a famine, an epidemic….and of course a ‘silent chuckle’.
Perhaps this is an opportunity for us…
To be more TOLERANT…to be more PATIENT about things not-in-sync with us.
A chance to live with a hope of coexistence.
…………………
I am getting devoid of music too.
Little by little.
Like my father.
Like this world.
But only in its literal sense.
These days I find the sweetest melodies dull…lifeless…mechanical. The more tuned a voice, the more rhythmic a song the more I detest it. While a song, a tune I find in a less musical ambience, in a less musical way…I find it more musical.
Like that sad tune played with an unknown instrument by an artist with an unknown face at a corner of an unknown road in a lesser known hill station, as I passed by jovially with my friend discussing the latest gossip and paid little attention to it…the tune hit me so magically at the darkest hour of the loneliest night…I find it so MUSICAL.
Even though the tune I cannot recall.
I discover music in “beyond sound” these days…as I did it for the first time with that baby bird.
A smile exchanged against a meaningless coarse…
A harmony sparkling in the tumultuous babble of a group of teenage friends…
A love survived even out of togetherness…
A baby nurtured by a mother even in the most dismal picture…
A sphere appeared every time we hear the word “world” even if we see it falling apart…
In each of these, I do find music.
With my soul dancing on its beat…
“unheard”.
To keep the musicality of my adulthood intact.
(Every person mentioned above is far from being great…if anyone appears so, that is only the mischief-making of memory)
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