Harmonium slung over the neck, he would hum old Bengali devotional lines,Pataki bole ki go eto asha bhalo hoy, tobe keno papi eto asha kore roy walking meditatively along the serene, cold evenings of the locality of Shillong, lazily entering the household to a warm welcome, especially the pious lady of the house. Elders and young alike would gather around him as he would sit on a bed cross legged comfortably on a sukhasana pose, all along singing without a pause till that number hit it’s final notes. Some break, steaming cups of tea and snacks later, he would sing along,’Tumi nirmolo koro, mongolo koro molino mormo muchaye‘ eyes half shut,fully engrossed with the emotion of the song, elders humming together, especially the pious lady, who would pick up the notes with ease and sing in high octaves………..
………..The house that he would visit often was a medium sized Assam Type house, perched neatly on the flowery slopes of a large compound, a stepped pathway leading to the frontal veranda from the serpentine hilly road shaded with tall pine trees, and a burbling wide rocky stream flowing with pride far below the compound on the other side, another hilly path separating the stream. Verdant thickly growing pine trees cascading through a chain of hills lay beyond the stream, an invitation to an eye full feast of greenery as far as the far horizon. The locality was almost entirely inhabited by Employees of the then Assam Government which, as a mark of honor, was named after the then Chief Minister of Assam, Late Bishnu Ram Medhi, who, during his tenure, had been instrumental in allotting land to these employees in this part of Shillong Town. ……
……….He would visit most frequently, summer or winter, even during rainy season, a large umbrella protecting his slung instrument, covered with oilcloth, and hum along meditatively, pitter patter on his umbrella accentuating the melody in his tune. Incessant rain on the tin roof, the rat-a-tat, the humid shadows hovering, the melancholy darkness, the weeping rainy tears! Oh! what a bliss it was to let go the voice in soulful abandon.
He was a man in his late thirties, a bachelor, a civil engineer by profession employed with Central Public Works Department at Shillong. Always clad in a spotlessly white dhoti and kurta, warm coat and a muffler, a dark complexioned man, his face always wore a deeply meditative expression as if engrossed with the sublime lyrics of some devotional song his mind would be humming silently.His employment was only a means for his upkeep, had no inclination at all in mundane matters like career growth, was fully at peace with the job at hand! His only passion was deep spiritual fulfillment, devotional singing being his pathway towards attainment of that nirvana. He would be awake before the small hours of dawn, take a cold bath after morning rituals and practice rewaj with his harmonium for hours together, oblivious to the hours ticking by, his reverie often to be broken with knocks on his door by the house owner, to remind him that he would be late for office.
The lady of the house, the crooner, would often visit, was a pious women, in her late forties, somewhat bent from her waist upwards, effect of daily cooking for her large family, on a earthen chullah, fumes rising from burning wood, often wet. In the midst of such drudgery, her very young sons, mostly the youngest two among her many children, would often pester her for meals, oblivious to their mother’s suffering. The lady would try to ignore her nagging acute back pain, hurrying to prepare her childrens’ favorite dishes, hungry that her sons were! Not that back pain was her only ailment, arthritic symptoms had also developed causing frequent pain in her knee joints, not to speak of the prominent goitre in her ivory neck.
The lady was not an early riser, every night she would be the last to go to bed, having taken care of her religious husband and children, the eldest among whom would often return home very late, after office, passing time among his huge friend circle. The lady would wait patiently till his return late at night, even after everyone else in the household had had their supper, herself remaining unfed. Her elder daughters would very often help their mother, but they had their academic studies to cope up. Even among so many household works, the lady would make out some spare time, after an afternoon nap, to practice and sing soulfully her favorite songs in her age old harmonium, an instrument that accompanied her with her Stree dhan. That besides, she would also weave on her hand loom colorful traditional fabrics, would be knitting with a woolen ball during whatever little time she could manage. The lady was a store house of many a talents, would often concoct medicinal herbs, collecting from plants and outgrowth that grew abundantly in the spacious compound of her household. At times, she would be preparing ‘Tikki’s and “Tamak” ( a fire aid for use in hookahs prepared by mixing and drying small rounded pastes of burnt wooden charcoal and cow dung! “tamak’, a fermented mixture of finely cut tobacco leaves with juice of molasses ) for her husband who was a Hookah addict. The lady was a pious woman, would often remain in meditation, eyes closed, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she prayed in her Puja, oblivious to her surroundings, an everyday inevitable regimen. As time passed by, her practice of singing gradually grew erratic, the daily rigor added with deteriorating health, especially the goiter in her throat often posing difficulties.
Her husband too was a devout person, would be awake very early, and while still in bed, invoke hymns of Sanskrit slokas and sing prayers every morning as a ritual. He was a dark complexioned man, lean and thin and was in his late fifties. An overused small edition of the Gita was his constant companion, in the pocket of his old coat, the pocket being home to an assortment of paper pieces, some very old that had long lost their utility, others of recent necessity. The other pocket carried a bazaar bag, folded over sized to somehow fit into the bulging pocket which was already half full with other utilities. Almost every evening, after office hours, it was his habit to visit Burra Bazaar (Iwduh), and would walk long way home with a bag full.
Saturday evenings were evenings of musical soiree. Saturdays were half holidays, office would be closed by early afternoon, and some enthusiastic employees would also prepone their own closing hours suitably, but the sentimental crooner was a disciplinarian too, he would leave his workplace only after the working hours were over for the day. And would hurry towards his quarters to sling his harmonium over his neck, humming all along the winding narrow roads, oblivious to the bemused curious onlookers. Late afternoon Sun would hover over the horizon, mischievous clouds playing hide and seek, the chill gusts of wind causing him to tighten up his muffler and coat, as he would saunter into the expectant household, with evening darkness thickening. He would be emotional and would let go his voice with sublime delight!! Khela je phuraiye jai and then ora chahite jane na dayamoi! He would continue one after the other,khelicho e biswa loye. Chandraboli sone kusuma shoyone. Late afternoon would pass over to evening and then early night, wooden logs would crackle in the fire place, freezing wind whistling outside, creating a heady environ for a pristine musical pot potpourri. Content and free from next day’s hectic office schedule, the musical session would continue thus. The lady would intone Ekbar broje cholo brojeswara din ek duer moto.…..and continue with tumi madhur onge nachago ronge nupuro bhonge hridoye……..devotion and ardent soulful appeal to lord vibrant in her magical voice, she would sing along Ami ki aar bolibo orere badhua ki aar bolibo tore, and so on…. Aamra moloy batashe bhese jabo …..
