The sentimental crooner

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, he, 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 goiter 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 …..

……..It so goes the story about the pious lady’s early stages of singing when she was very young….. Her father was a very stern police officer in the days of British Raj, taller than average with ample girth, possessed a stentorian voice, radiating an aura of reverence and respect by his very presence. He was a robust person with a formidable personality, had a reputation as one much feared, and his children too were equally in awe of him. His strict diktat was to pursue academics among his children, cultural activities was a strict no no, it would hamper in pursuit of academic excellence. Being very passionate about singing, this daughter practiced music furtively without his knowledge. With time she became quite adept, her reputation slowly gaining ground among the then cultural milieu in that aesthetically vibrant township,(a township that was torn away to Erstwhile East Pakistan, now Bangladesh, though a sizable section of local populace desired to remain in divided India, but then it is another story! ). All these without a hint to her father, who was always busy with police duty, had had little time for his family.

It had to happen, so one particular day when he was at home, organizers of a musical function visited his residence and requested permission for his daughter to sing in that cultural event. He felt as if he fell from the sky, was dumb for a while, possibly the organizers were mistaken? Now it was their turn to be surprised, and while praising her daughter for her talent, insisted that she be allowed to participate. All this while, she was listening behind the curtain in the other room, stupefied that she was now caught! Unable to believe his ears, he called his daughter. She meekly appeared, waiting with tribulation the avalanche of angry bursts that was certain to befall upon her, trembling visibly. He remained silent for a while, astonished, looking at askance, then gently asked her to sing a song. Swept with relief, She regained her composure and sang. She sang a bhajan that she often heard her father humming to himself, pouring her heart out soulfully, with such emotion that her father, mesmerized, hummed together, eyes closed, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks, a never seen sight for the children, an authoritative police man crying!! He remained silent for a while, as if in a trance, intense remorse and pride playing with his emotions. And thus henceforth, she had to sing for her father every time he happened to be at home!

A few words about this Policeman! His third son in line, among many of his children, was more passionate with dance drama than academics. A little more than a month was left for his final graduate exam, but he was busy doing rehearsal for a dance drama that was to be staged soon, which was apparently more important to him, father being blissfully ignorant about where his son’s interest lay! Aware that the exam was near, on one occasion when he was at home, with some respite from duty, he sought out his son. Of course the son was not at home! As he learnt about his dramatic inclination,despite his imminent exam, from stammering versions of fear stricken members of his family, who would not dare lie to him, he roared with intense rage, drawing out his gun with seething anger, threatening to shoot the moment he was back! His poor wife and the terrified children were at their wit’s end to pacify this mad man. Having learnt about his father’s fulminations, he peed in his pants out of sheer terror, forgot all about dance drama and studied day and night for the remaining days till the exam was over. He did comfortably well but also became temporarily insane!!

An interesting story about this policeman’s confrontation with English police superiors was afloat in those times……..

……….The police super, a red faced Briton, was on a routine round in his office. As he was passing by the seat that her father occupied, the Red faced stopped and stared at him in consternation, as he stood up and smartly saluted. With indignation he demanded, ‘ how dare you smear that tilak on your forehead, when you very well know that it violates the rules’….. ……….Her father belonged to a vaishnavite community among whom it was customary for the devoted to wear a tilak on their forehead as a mark of obeisance to the deity….(the tilak put on the forehead is called Urdhapundra, two parallel lines representing the lotus feet of the lord and Tulasi leaf on the nose, representing devotion at the feet of the lord)….Since wearing the tilok prominently on the forehead was against Police dress code, though there was no specific codification, he would symbolically put it with his finger dipped in Mantra chanted water, instead of using the customary white chandan paste ( called Gopi chandan ), as not wearing at all was against his faith. As misfortune would befall him accidentally on that day, he unconsciously overlooked the tilak that he wore for performing a particular religious ceremony at home, hurriedly left for duty in uniform, completely oblivious of the bright pattern that shone on his forehead!…… ………The Super would not accept any explanation or apology and served him with a stern Show Cause notice. Now this police man, a proud man to say the least, felt insulted but was impotent to openly give vent to his anger. In reply to the show cause, he at first sought apology for the unwarranted slip in his action, thereafter forcefully narrated about his faith and custom of the community to which he belonged and the mandatory tilak that they must put on their forehead, explaining it’s significance, which he had been doing with mantra chanted purified water, so as not to be visible. But that he always felt incomplete in his devotion sans the chandan smeared Urdhapundra, by not carrying the Hari Mandir, the lotus feet of the Lord on his forehead. He concluded his explanation with a fervent appeal to allow wearing the tilak by amending the rules if necessary!

The Police Super was in a dilemma…… he could neither accept nor reject the reply, as accepting would be tantamount to violation of police code whereas rejecting involved hurting religious sentiments of a community at large! He chose the safest option by seeking instructions from Police Head Quarters at Calcutta. The Head Quarters too faced the same predicament and sought directions from the Viceroy of the Indian Dominion!

Now it was the Viceroy’s turn to be in a fix! He too was in a quandary and so ultimately it reached the Buckingham Palace in London! The innocuous looking sheet of paper found itself staring peevishly at the British Crown!!

Days passed into month and then another and more, the issue was almost forgotten, the Policeman continued to symbolically put on the tilak with finger dipped in water……. And then one day the Royal instructions arrived! embossed with Royal insignia, envelope direct from the Crown’s stationery! The Crown sympathized and respected the religious sentiments of His loyal subjects, the appeal was accepted with an advice! He was allowed to put on the tilak as per his customs, but should not be too prominent to attract special attention.

It was indeed a major triumph for that proud policeman!!

…….The sentimental crooner abruptly stopped visiting the household. Weeks passed but there was no trace of this emotional singer, as if he suddenly disappeared without a trace. Worried, inquiries were made and it was learnt that he was transferred on short notice to a remote place bordering East Pakistan to supervise a Govt of India project. He had left hurriedly with a single suitcase and his harmonium, leaving his other modest belongings with the house owner.

Bereft of his regular presence, specially on Saturday evenings, he was immensely missed, as if his resonant voice echoed, that he would be arriving any time now, humming and playing his harmonium. The lady continued her singing, though irregularly owing to her failing health. Months rolled by, a year passed, as everything fades with time, he too became part of a fondly remembered memory, his favorite songs often hummed absent minded by the household.

Then one day he came! He came as suddenly as he had disappeared. He was no more his older vibrant self, the orange tinge in his dark complexion, the healthy vigor that the cool, verdant, pure climate of Shillong bestowed upon him were all gone, he seemed to be a shadow of what he once was! Indeed he looked very ill, and he came without his constant companion, the harmonium……. He narrated his story……

The place where he was sent to supervise the construction of an ongoing Govt of India project was very close to East Pakistan border, a good distance from the nearest township, that could better be described as one large village than a township. He somehow managed a room in a modest house, owned by a local villager. The place was most unhealthy, humid, hot, full of mosquitoes. Food, ie the kind of food that he was accustomed to, was also scarce, the people around being very poor. He had to travel to the so called Township occasionally to stock up his requirements, a travel that was most arduous, had to walk a long distance on muddy road to avail any kind of ancient mode of transport. The rigor and the unhealthy climate soon had its toll on him, he fell seriously ill. Alone, fending to himself in a single room, rudimentary shed called toiletry quite a far through open space, he felt most depressed, illness getting more serious by the day, hope for treatment of any doctor a far cry in that remote village.

The daughter of the house owner, a young women, possibly in early twenties or more, shy and hesitant at first, looked after him in those trying times, administering locally prepared medicinal herbs that the village Kabiraj concocted. He was almost unconscious with high fever, head ache, acute pain through out his body. She even stayed through the nights when he was unconscious, in delirium. In fact, listening to his rewaj every morning, his soulful rendition, she had developed an affection towards him. Feeling embarrassed, she had confined her feelings within herself. In one such night, incoherent with high fever, she continuously massaged his forehead, altering wet pieces of cloth now and then. Intimate closeness to the sick man aroused her warm emotions, with an impulse she cupped his hot cheeks in her hands! May his sufferings be hers, she wished! And then she turned crimson with embarrassment, ashamed, she shyly looked at him, did he see her! relieved that his eyes were closed, was in his own blubbering world, she continued massaging his forehead, wetting his hot cheeks as well. Next morning, feeling better, he opened his eyes and saw her sleeping by his bed side, in half sitting posture, exhausted. A swath of gratitude engulfed him, his heart made a turn, a wild desire to embrace her swelled within him, blinding his senses, waves of passion surging up. With an effort he restrained himself. Instead he held her hand, delicately caressing her softness in his palm. As if his tender affection seeped through her by his touch, arousing her, she awoke with a start, at the very instant when the door opened, her father entering.

He recovered slowly, though not fully, weak and emaciated, losing much weight. The house owner approached one day, seemingly awkward and perturbed, telling him hesitantly that the village folks talked, a rumor had spread, his daughter spent nights with him. That he had lost his honor in the society, that no eligible man would accept his daughter in marriage now. He must marry his daughter, to save her from ignominy.

Though a soft corner developed within him,though he was aware that the woman did indeed had a crush on him, the idea of marrying her was far from his mind! In fact he had little or no inclination towards marriage, his devotion lay only in music, in singing, it was his heart and soul. Besides, the women, though she was charming with a dark brown complexion, full with youthfulness, she was rustic, had had little education, not someone he would ever long for, if ever he thought of marrying any damsel. She was also from a lower caste too, from a different community, himself belonging to an orthodox Vaishnavite family, a relationship that would never be accepted among his own.

He was in a big trauma, mentally upset. In no way he seemed to be responsible for the delicate situation, though he was immensely grateful to the house owner, his daughter. He searched his soul, was he guilty? He thought he was not, ‘Oh God, help me!’ he prayed.

But he was a man of fortitude, possessing high moral values. As the reality of the proposal dawned on him, he felt more attracted towards her, he would not let her be defamed, a woman who selflessly treated him in his hour of crisis. And thus he married her.

As was inevitable, he was ostracized, deserted by his society, in his own village, by his own kith and kin…….

……….A heavy silence descended, deeply pained that everybody were. With a sigh the lady played a tune on her harmonium, sang a devotional one and then one of his favorites, inviting him to lend his voice. He played on, his fingers dancing on the reeds, losing none of his touch! He sang, eyes closed, deep resonant voice filling the vacuum. As he reached the high notes, the Taar Saptak, he started coughing, coughing uncontrollably, and continued coughing as if his guts were in turmoil, breathless! Face puffed red, tears rolling down, hands and body trembling, shaking, the agony continued for a while, all along covering his mouth with a handkerchief. Breathing heavily, intermittently, he slowly regained his composure. He sat silently for a while, eyes closed, wiping a few tears. He was weeping! He was terminally ill!

Without a word, he stood up, touched the feet of the lady and her husband, and left. They knew they would not see him again. He looked back once, as if to have a last glimpse, then slowly walked away out of sight, fading away for ever!