My legs kicked up the dust from the earth as I walked rather briskly. I hummed a tune and my footsteps, with their regular pattern, provided a steady beat. The road was long, winding and soul-less. The fact that there was no one in a kilometre’s range didn’t bother me; on the contrary, I was glad that I was alone. I am somewhat of a loner-- the type of person one would rarely come across nowadays. I detest the mad rush that one associates with city-life, chatting with people, waiting in bus-stops, shopping in markets. I enjoy long walks around the hills with only the trees, wild flowers and birds for company.
My destination was less than a kilometre away.
Within minutes, my eyes rested on a sight that I never tire of. The spectacle of a river in November is something else. It isn’t brimming with water as it usual is in the monsoons nor does it go dry as in mid-summer. It is just right. I made my way to my favourite spot and sat down--my legs being tickled by the lukewarm water of the river. The river sparkled in the sun's glorious rays; the kingfisher scouted the water-surface waiting to plunge, the white birds played about in gay abandon and the boatman rowed along peacefully. The sky was a myriad of colours--violet, blue, with streaks of bright orange and yellow--- as the light faded and the sun sank. It was time to go.
I got up, wiped the dust off my backside and turned to go. The silence was stunning; the nocturnal insects were yet to exercise their vocal chords. And through the silence, a flute played the raga Kalyani--the most melodious Kalyani that I had ever heard. Everything seemed to stay still for a moment, captivated by the mesmerising tune and the purity of sound. I stood, rooted, listening to the flute in the distance which went flawlessly from one note to another. I had heard several flautists in innumerable kutcheris, but none had been able to enchant me in the way that this one had done. Probably it was because the sound was natural, not amplified by speakers and microphones or probably because there weren’t several hundred persons around me, but only an expanse of blue, both above and below.
Kalyani was followed by Chakravaka, one of my favourite ragas. I lay down on the banks, closed my eyes and listened. Initially, he tinkered with the mandharasthayis*, rarely rising above the gandhara**. Then, all of a sudden, like a spitting cobra raising its hood, he leapt majestically to the higher notes. I imagined dancing patterns that rose and fell with the svaras***, but soon gave up---he was just too quick for me. He would produce the most intricate of gamakas with as much difficulty as a fish has in water. I felt myself soaring away into the skies, flooded by the sheer force of the notes. He had gained complete control over the ocean of my emotions with just his flute, like a boatman conquering the seas with his oars. The man was a genius and had it not been pitch-dark, I would have walked along the banks and not rest till I found him.
The next day, I set out well before dawn, with only the stars for company. I had rarely been to the river this early, but the flute's enchanting melodies had given me no sleep the previous night. I had vowed to come back at day-break and find the flautist.
Soon, it was twilight-- faint light seeped through the clouds and the early-rising birds stirred into action. The world was painted in a dull orange; the chill of the night had just begun to wear off.
By the time I reached the river, now dullish grey in colour, a deep-red Sun had just risen. The birds twittered noisily as if in applause of the arrival of the master in the horizon. I scanned, intently, the banks of the river, hoping to spot somebody. At the far end, the boatman prodded the water with his oar, trying to gauge the level of water. He made his way towards his boat, untied it, and rowed along towards me. He stroked along gracefully and with ease. There was a lazy charm in his movements that I loved watching. It gave me the impression that nothing ever troubled him--as if he was one with the world.
Presently, he was metres away from me, and I gave him a smile. He returned it, slowed down and asked--
"Shekhar! What are you doing here so early? Sunrise at dawn, eh?
"Yes, you can say so"
"Well, I must really be going along, I don’t row about this early in the morning, you see"
"Okay then--- Wait!"
"Yes?"
"When I came yesterday, I heard someone playing the flute. Do you know who it was?"
"Oh, him! I don’t know who he is. But he spent the night in that deserted hut over there. I think he played through the night. In fact, he swam over for dinner with us"
"Swam over?"
"Yes. Poor chap, he seemed to be terribly hungry. I fed him with whatever we had. He seemed to love my wife's cooking. Said he had never had such stuff in years. I told him he could stay with us for the night, but he insisted on going back to the hut. Said he loved a swim in the river in the night-time"
"Is he there now?"
"No, I checked in just before I saw you. He seems to have gone. I am quite sure he didn’t drown though, for he played the flute nearly until dawn"
I was aghast. I searched every nook and corner of the hut for some clue that would lead me to him. The stunning clarity of the flute, the grace with which he played kept coming back to me. There was a certain rustic charisma about the way he played—it was untouched by other influences. In short, it was pure Carnatic music. I went back everyday for at least a month, hoping that one day he would return and once more entrance me with his flute.
Last week, during the annual celebrations, several renowned musicians came to sing and play. After one particularly masterful performance by a great performer, one of my friends remarked
“Scintillating. Superbly scintillating. I don’t think I have heard anything like that before”
I smiled, and said with a heavy heart,
“When you have seen the Everest, no mountain looks imposing enough”
“What does that mean?"
“You see, one evening, not too long ago, I made my way to the river….” I began and couldn’t help feeling like the mythological golden mongoose for whom no sacrifice was as great as the Brahmin’s.
*Lower notes
**Ga(Third of the seven svaras)
***notes
My destination was less than a kilometre away.
Within minutes, my eyes rested on a sight that I never tire of. The spectacle of a river in November is something else. It isn’t brimming with water as it usual is in the monsoons nor does it go dry as in mid-summer. It is just right. I made my way to my favourite spot and sat down--my legs being tickled by the lukewarm water of the river. The river sparkled in the sun's glorious rays; the kingfisher scouted the water-surface waiting to plunge, the white birds played about in gay abandon and the boatman rowed along peacefully. The sky was a myriad of colours--violet, blue, with streaks of bright orange and yellow--- as the light faded and the sun sank. It was time to go.
I got up, wiped the dust off my backside and turned to go. The silence was stunning; the nocturnal insects were yet to exercise their vocal chords. And through the silence, a flute played the raga Kalyani--the most melodious Kalyani that I had ever heard. Everything seemed to stay still for a moment, captivated by the mesmerising tune and the purity of sound. I stood, rooted, listening to the flute in the distance which went flawlessly from one note to another. I had heard several flautists in innumerable kutcheris, but none had been able to enchant me in the way that this one had done. Probably it was because the sound was natural, not amplified by speakers and microphones or probably because there weren’t several hundred persons around me, but only an expanse of blue, both above and below.
Kalyani was followed by Chakravaka, one of my favourite ragas. I lay down on the banks, closed my eyes and listened. Initially, he tinkered with the mandharasthayis*, rarely rising above the gandhara**. Then, all of a sudden, like a spitting cobra raising its hood, he leapt majestically to the higher notes. I imagined dancing patterns that rose and fell with the svaras***, but soon gave up---he was just too quick for me. He would produce the most intricate of gamakas with as much difficulty as a fish has in water. I felt myself soaring away into the skies, flooded by the sheer force of the notes. He had gained complete control over the ocean of my emotions with just his flute, like a boatman conquering the seas with his oars. The man was a genius and had it not been pitch-dark, I would have walked along the banks and not rest till I found him.
The next day, I set out well before dawn, with only the stars for company. I had rarely been to the river this early, but the flute's enchanting melodies had given me no sleep the previous night. I had vowed to come back at day-break and find the flautist.
Soon, it was twilight-- faint light seeped through the clouds and the early-rising birds stirred into action. The world was painted in a dull orange; the chill of the night had just begun to wear off.
By the time I reached the river, now dullish grey in colour, a deep-red Sun had just risen. The birds twittered noisily as if in applause of the arrival of the master in the horizon. I scanned, intently, the banks of the river, hoping to spot somebody. At the far end, the boatman prodded the water with his oar, trying to gauge the level of water. He made his way towards his boat, untied it, and rowed along towards me. He stroked along gracefully and with ease. There was a lazy charm in his movements that I loved watching. It gave me the impression that nothing ever troubled him--as if he was one with the world.
Presently, he was metres away from me, and I gave him a smile. He returned it, slowed down and asked--
"Shekhar! What are you doing here so early? Sunrise at dawn, eh?
"Yes, you can say so"
"Well, I must really be going along, I don’t row about this early in the morning, you see"
"Okay then--- Wait!"
"Yes?"
"When I came yesterday, I heard someone playing the flute. Do you know who it was?"
"Oh, him! I don’t know who he is. But he spent the night in that deserted hut over there. I think he played through the night. In fact, he swam over for dinner with us"
"Swam over?"
"Yes. Poor chap, he seemed to be terribly hungry. I fed him with whatever we had. He seemed to love my wife's cooking. Said he had never had such stuff in years. I told him he could stay with us for the night, but he insisted on going back to the hut. Said he loved a swim in the river in the night-time"
"Is he there now?"
"No, I checked in just before I saw you. He seems to have gone. I am quite sure he didn’t drown though, for he played the flute nearly until dawn"
I was aghast. I searched every nook and corner of the hut for some clue that would lead me to him. The stunning clarity of the flute, the grace with which he played kept coming back to me. There was a certain rustic charisma about the way he played—it was untouched by other influences. In short, it was pure Carnatic music. I went back everyday for at least a month, hoping that one day he would return and once more entrance me with his flute.
Last week, during the annual celebrations, several renowned musicians came to sing and play. After one particularly masterful performance by a great performer, one of my friends remarked
“Scintillating. Superbly scintillating. I don’t think I have heard anything like that before”
I smiled, and said with a heavy heart,
“When you have seen the Everest, no mountain looks imposing enough”
“What does that mean?"
“You see, one evening, not too long ago, I made my way to the river….” I began and couldn’t help feeling like the mythological golden mongoose for whom no sacrifice was as great as the Brahmin’s.
*Lower notes
**Ga(Third of the seven svaras)
***notes
