the call of sarangi

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...

ghosts of my god...

The sound of the bell kept playing in my head hours after the aarti got over. It wasn't the first time either, and I knew this won't even be the last. It made me restless. It never let me sleep, made me an insomniac. As I lay wide awake, staring at the fan, the bells kept ringing inside, ready to break out. It went on and on and on, filling every bit of my existence, every bit of space inside me. I screamed, but the bells silenced me once again, never letting my voice out.

I heard them every morning, every evening. Every time I opened my eyes, ever so briefly and looked at the swarm of pious visitors, they watered with pity. I wanted to tell them to go away, to not prostate here. No one lived here, but me. But they kept coming, over and over again, day after day, year after year. Some had been coming here for as long as I lived. But they needed to be stopped, they needed to be told that it was just four walls here; just dead walls, just an empty space, a place with no soul.

I kept thinking this, day after day, a few years after the bells started chasing me. I begged for redemption for my lack of faith, and my little faith failed me again. Giving up on my self and my god, I carried on with life. Maybe I will carry on for years to come, maybe I will scream out loud and close the doors of this space forever. Maybe I will become a believer once again...

For now, I live with my ghosts, with the bells chasing me everywhere...

Happy couple, eh!

The day has already started and I am already in office and already developing the concept shortlisted yesterday. But no, the post is not as lame as the first line here.

Its not common for me to come alone to office at this time, but today I did. And as I enjoyed the tea-sutta at the little tea stall, I saw something which made me happy and I actually smile on my own :)

There was terrific early morning light on Vikram (chai wala kid) and I was already missing my camera. While I attempted (quite unsuccessfully) to make rings of smoke, a middle aged couple came on their Kinetic Honda and asked for chai. Nothing usual about it I guess, but there was this intense chemistry between them as they waited for the tea, and I could feel the romance still alive between them. The guy actually took his clean white handkerchief and cleaned the glasses before Vikram could pour chai in them. I was elated!

We've (me, friends) been discussing how so many married couples we know do not look happy in each other's company and how life becomes mumdane and boring within an year of getting married. This couple kind of broke the perception; perhaps such love is much rarer, but it does exist :)

p.s. these two might not be a couple, and might just be out for tea after their first one-night-stand! In any case, I was happy to see them happy :)

The Little Boy and his Magic

'Do you want to see some magic', he asked, his bright big eyes ripe with anticipation.

We passed the cigarette between us and continued discussing what should be the new strategy forward for the company, completely oblivious to the presence of the little boy almost pleading with us.

'I will show you good magic, only Rupees five', he pressed again even as S dismissed him with a wave of his hand. All this while we avoided making any eye contact with him; looking at him would not be as easy as it was to pretend that he wasn't present there and so needed no intervention from our side.

'Sir, my magic is good, only Rupees five. I am hungry', he said, looked at us still engrossed in our conversation and hiding behind the cloud of smoke. He moved on to another guy sitting on a scooter, who angrily scared the little kid away before he could even tell him how good his magic was.

I forgot all about him, till he came back again in my dreams and asked for money in exchange of some great magic so he could eat some food. I don't remember anymore if I agreed.

In love with the rains

The broken bits of music wafted into the kitchen early Sunday morning as Nandini read the morning paper, waiting patiently for the coffee to get ready. She tapped her feet to it, filling up the broken bits as the radio coughed and skipped parts of the raga. She didn't mind, she knew the piece well and sang along with her mother's honey-like voice, never looking up, engrossed constantly in the paper.

By the time the sound of steam escaped the coffee maker, the sky was dark and it had started to rain. The radio was playing well now, the music was inter-spread with the sound of falling water, some hitting the mud outside the house and making a thumping sound, some screaming in joy as they clashed with the tin roof of the garage, while the rest found other homes and made numerous other sounds. The wind chime joined in soon, as the cold wind from the river found a path towards the land. It was all a beautiful melody together, unusual sounds mixing - Nandini, her now deceased mother, the rains, the wind, the chimes.

With the cup of coffee ready she walked into the study, looking for Manoj. She followed the music, still swaying to its beauty, her mind constantly humming the tune, her heart playing along and egging her on for some mischief. Manoj was already dozing off with the book half open and a half smoked cigarette kept in the ashtray, small wisps of smoke still escaping from its half lit end. He was trying to quit and smoking only half a cigarette was the latest in his list of efforts.

She took a small puff from the almost dying cigarette and let it work on her. Slowly dipping her finger into the hot-sweet cup of coffee she let her finger slowly spread it over his lips and week-long beard, her other hand played with his hair. His nap broken, he opened his eyes slowly and smiled as she sat on his lap and struggled with his already haphazardly worn mundu.

It was over within seconds, as her body erupted into spasms of ecstasy, while he held her tightly. The coffee was lukewarm as they enjoyed it together lying on the floor, still looking mischievously into each others eyes, the mundu entwined with their bodies, even as Nandini's mother reached her own crescendo and the piece finally ended.

Image ref - www.corbis.com