The glitter on string caught the slow glow coming from the overhung lamp; with all the darkness around, it looked like suspended light, floating alone, along with the constant sound from ustad's sarangi. I was spellbound once again, the slow and wistful raaga today was perhaps just a preface to the more tragic set of events that were to unfold later in the night; for now it just bought me closer to tears, tears of melancholic indulgence. I looked into ustad's eyes and found them brimming with the salty water as well, always on the edge, the tears never quite managing to fall. Even as the light outside continued dimming, the music played on, my heart kept skipping a beat. The ebbing light made it easier for me to let go, to free my tears, to let them flow, to let them wet my face, wet my soul.
Just as I was a slave to his music and his soul, so was the ustad to me, the man in love with his music for years. Ustad wouldn't stop playing the music, unless I asked him to. When he was so deep within his music, there was no coming back to the real world for him, unless called back forcibly. And for that the music had to be stopped abruptly. As I sat there looking at his face, slowing eaten up by the darkness around, I didn't know what to do next. It was so beautiful and serene, and I didn't want to disturb it, and the music played so beautifully, I could barely breathe. I was bound in my own web, and though I knew I had to do something fast, my heart and my body refused to listen.
The music went on, I could now hear ustad's little boy on the table as well. Opening my arms wide, I let it all soak in. Permanently. The ruins of Roshanbaug were awake again tonight, despite the near complete darkness. Somewhere I knew, this couldn't go on, not for long; but I didn't move, not as yet. I had to make a choice I possibly couldn't, and finally didn't.
I never quite realized when the ustad stopped playing the sarangi, and my mind had completely taken over and replaced his music with my own imagination. In the frenzy that followed, I cried and screamed and pulled my hair our. I confessed my love to him, made promises I knew can never be kept. But he never stopped, not even once and played on, in my mind, for my heart. Forever...
As I caressed his face, wiped his tears and closed his tired eyes, I finally let go of him. It had taken me a lifetime to come so close to him, only to leave him so far behind.
I would like the above story dedicated to Ustad Sultan Khan who passed away yesterday (27.11.2011). His Sarangi was a big influence on me, not just for this small post, but also for my love for the instrument. Do explore it, if you haven't done it already...
