VOID AND DUST

(The acme of music)

[In] sound itself, there is a readiness to be ordered by the spirit and this is seen at its most sublime in music—Max Picard

Away from Metaphysical Antirealism, views of some logical positivists and some die-hard scientists there exists a receptive, tolerant seminary somewhere in the east of the heart of India. One will be disheartened to find no priests, ministers or rabbi here. Only a void of eternal, enduring permanence continues to prevail in absence of one disciplinarian scholar. If one has the inclination for listening to voids, I would submit ‘look no further’. But beware this bears no similarity to hearing cosmic voids in modern physics with tools and devices borne by the contemporary man.

**The Maestro and his son Ustad Ali Akbar**

The look of this emptiness in Maihar is deceptive. An elementary two storied green and red receptacle of brick and mortar at one time would temperately invite serious enthusiast of music to drown in the world of nodes and anti-nodes of waves, they have hitherto unheard of. And this was free, attracting no charges. The business was genuine, honest, thoughtful and bore no nonsensical exercise. Which attribute would one choose for this lean, soft spoken, inconspicuous bald-headed man who cared little for himself and would often turn a harsh, strict disciplinarian to teach his students a lesson? He was not a man easily recognisable in the crowd but his endurance, tireless energy and resilience brought him to the helm of Indian classical music as one of the finest teachers the world has ever produced. Ravi Shankar, Khan’s son Ali Akbar, Nikhil Banerjee, Allauddin’s daughter Annapurna and noted flautist Pannalal Ghosh from Calcutta will all affirm in silence. Some serious questions still await answers to be delivered about this Muslim boy of ten who played truant, broke himself away from the restraints of a school, stole money and left his home (now in present day Bangladesh) without notice, hooked up with the sadhus in Calcutta, joined a Hindu family and received love and affection and turned an authoritarian enforcer of rules and regulations in serious schooling in music.

**Ustad Allauddin Khan in pensive mood**

Acharya Allauddin Khan, the noted sarod player’s home at Maihar in the state of Madhya Pradesh in India will hold no secret when a visitor decorously bows in reverence in penultimate silence to listen to the voice of his instruments dispersing from its silent walls. An accomplished, multifaceted protean who could effortlessly play innumerable implements was himself a man of silence, who boasted little about himself. And he was a courageous God loving man and not a God fearing one, not attentive to the verbosity of the common people, what they said about him and what they said not. Possibly this was one of the reasons he could readily decorate the walls of his residence with Gods and Goddesses from all religions and this routine is still being followed through his generations.

William Shakespeare long back in 1601 had hinted about the metaphysics of music in ‘Twelfth Night’ when the bard spoke. Music is expressive and profound unlike written words in literature and assembles a compelling weighty environment in the mind of an empathising listener. Its fluidity and dynamics can elevate or transcend its hearer to another level of existence. This surely is not “Speculative Metaphysics” intentionally incorporated by the so called ‘Magic Healers’. On entering the world of Maestro Allauddin Khan’s spartan existence, now called his home at Maihar a sense of gratitude and gratefulness quietly descends and encompasses a melophile who unknowingly has turned a melomaniac with time going past. What can be more precise and pliable at one go? Here Khan’s protoplasm, soul and passion has turned into one permanence. This unicameral existence respects pre seventeenth century metaphysics no doubt but flouts and defies modern metaphysics, that nothing in this world is permanent.

A stubborn wooden bed that easily should be called a bunk, embellished with nothing but uncompliant firmness and rigidity eats up most part of a small room on the left of the drawing room for the guests. Here in Khan’s bedroom open space is scarce but the walls adorned with photographs of great men like Tagore and Swami Vivekananda, with others turned dark with passage of time, ensures Khan’s respects for those who influenced the world. A modern enthusiast of music will not be attracted to the repulsiveness of this cubicle. It is too dark and inelegant to be called a resting place for a tiring soul. But it mattered little to Khan, a restless, inconstant man fidgeting for harmony in sound.

Another small room on the right cramped yet neat, exhibits the musical instruments encased in glass, Khan had used in his lifetime. A gramophone rests at the corner of the room where Khan might have enjoyed Beethoven. This room is a fitting, quintessential representation of Khan’s multifaceted, adroitness. An utter surprise awaits when one raises his eyes for the cornice. A photograph of Beethoven adorns and stares at Allaudin when he takes a break. It is rare for a music lover to find a western classicalist in a home for an eastern virtuoso. This echoes how tolerant and accepting Khan was. Only a truly, liberated educated man has the ability to recognise another man’s scholarship. A gleaming ray of radiance emerging from an open courtyard will attract anyone to the sunlit atrium bordered by a sprawling verandah of repute where Khan disbursed his wisdom, as free as fluid without hindrance. Rare movie albums depict Khan, sitting on a hard, unelaborated wooden chowki teaching his students no other than Ravishankar, Ali Akbar and Nikhil Bandopadhyay in those days.

After one exits Khan’s elementary home, the brightly coloured off-white, lilac, catenary arched mausoleum on the right attracts. The arch on this one storey construction reflects serenity found in Tagore’s Shantiniketan. Here rests two ever-indissoluble souls, ground down, that of Khan’s and his wife, now turned dust after time has elapsed silently.

After I had paid my respect to Khan’s grave I sat on its stairs, but not to dawdle away my time, only to find another middle-aged visitor taking a short nap.

‘Visited the place?’ I asked him, showing the red-green house behind me. He nodded in yes.

‘It’s a spellbinding place, I must admit’ I continued, ‘Are you a musician?’ I asked.

‘Me? You make me laugh, Babuji (Sir). I can neither read nor write.’ I noticed his boring lungi and the hackneyed waist-coat I had missed. He must be a local man I wondered. ‘But I listen to music. It comforts me so much that I can’t stop listening to it,’ he persisted, ‘I care

little what the music is, but there must be a melody to touch everyone’s heart.’ He didn’t stop here and kept talking to himself.

‘The music these days has lost its harmony. Believe me the melody is nearly lost’ and he stopped here I believed.

It was time for me to leave and I turned to get into my shoes.

‘Where’s the other man gone?’ I asked the chowkidar pointing at the extreme end of the staircase.

‘Who?’ casually replied the watchman, ‘You are the only one sitting here, I have already locked the gates. Its already five and the museum is closed.’

I no more could find the odd local man I had met.

(Photographs by author with verbal permission from caretaker of Madina Bhavan)

Bundi, where doing nothing is doing something

The bus screeched to a halt, raising dust into air for people around to cough. Here in this city of Rajasthan tourist is barely noticeable, people jostle for space, streets are rarely cleaned but the place is too friendly to be forgotten. To an average traveler it’s a groundless destination but to the unorthodox it’s worthy to turn loafer without cortical idling.

Bundi is 266 meters above sea level surrounded by hills on three sides and I am sure the highest point at 440 meters is unreachable through forest. Still the summer here at fifty degrees can melt away your skin and the winter is harsh too.

I reached Bundi one December afternoon feeling comfortable in pullovers. The bus bay at the city center where the historic market had existed for centuries was too crowded to lay my foot and my suitcase when I dethroned. In the omnibus I was sitting on a one foot by one foot luggage kept perfectly at the center of the passage, but passengers didn’t seem to bother. In this heavily crowded bus one passenger referred the luggage owner as a descendant of donkey clan but the other passenger was too reluctant to pick up a fight. As I waited for the slang to fly under everyone’s nose and participation, the bus has reached its destination.

I crossed the road wheeling my luggage for a tea shop, persistently keeping my shoulder away from three –wheeler drivers ready to hook a tourist not acquainted with the lanes, bye-lanes and shortcuts of Bundi. These outsiders appear lucrative. After I had sipped the last drop, the shopkeeper came to my rescue. He asked me to get an auto-rikshaw, pay him not more than forty, to a stay at the higher reaches of the city away from the humdrums.

The lanes here would be familiar to those who are conversant with Benaras, narrow, never eminent, persistently cool, appearing haunted at night and looking overcrowded at day. But they are undoubtedly a haven for the weary traveler. The descending slope from my hotel brought me soon into a lighted street with shops over looking pedestrians ready for a time consuming chat. The shopkeepers in a courteous manner waved tourists for a visit. It matters little whether you buy a product from the shop or not. At least at one shop inside the fort I was astonished to find a little girl, so naïve, refusing to charge me for a bottle of soft drink. I didn’t find a wine shop but there were approved official sellers of edible preparations of cannabis. There are shops selling kites, a tea-seller uninterruptedly preparing tea, hesitant for a rest. He told us that he graduated with a technical degree, a degree in arts and one in commerce. Why is he selling tea? I wondered. Another man was weaving a cotton saree, a visual delight indeed. But who buys his linen in a power loom age? Or maybe he is sleepwalking into the twenty-first century. More down the lane sweet-meat shops were in plenty. Two men in lathe rooms made exquisite daggers, masks, toy pistols, key-hangers for decorating. Stray cows block roads but no annoying please, I was told. They are old, and most of them do not produce enough milk and are an infuriating burden to the owners. Two wheelers fly pass walkers but no grazing was to be seen. Some three hundred years old lofty stone walled gates at the middle of the road form junctions making it easier for lovers seeking appointments. The road zigzags, cunningly serpentines but rarely brings automobiles face to face, ultimately liberating itself into the sprawling grand old bazaar. Here everyone is selling everything at the crest of his voice, from cheap vegetables to fresh fruits. A lane dedicated to shoe shops is so winding, it made me lose my orientation. After a cup of fuming but aberrant tea laced with spices I found myself sitting only next to an ornate gate I had visited yesterday. I can reach my room safely now.

The next morning I followed the narrow lane encompassing the fort and encountered ‘Nawal Sagar’. On its tranquil surface wind blew without begetting ripples. After I had followed the road more, I found the massive yellow fort has produced its large format reflection on the water, standing still against the lapis lazuli sky. On a Sunday afternoon, in a clean empty park, a young mother played with her children. This side of the city appeared cleaner.

It was lunchtime for a rather uncommon oily, fried ‘kachori’ (a bread made from onions blended with flour). It is large and keeps your tummy filled for hours. This bread goes well with a cup of tea from the over educated tea seller. I kept sipping the tea lazily and it bothered the shop keeper little as you commonly find in metropolis. In fact I had nothing to do when someone reminded me about Rudyard Kipling’s stay in this city in a small room overlooking another large water body called Jait Sagar. The room stood empty with only a few photographs of Kipling, now bothered by the state. The adjacent government archeological museum too was empty of visitors, the sentry engrossed in a chat to shy away boredom. The road smelled of pigs and cow excreta mixed with cooked dishes blowing from a nearby hotel. I walked for two more kilometers back to the over educated tea seller for a chat and a cup of tea without milk this time. An embarrassment awaited me when the tea-man refused to charge for this extra cup of tea. After I had come back to my city, the little girl and the tea-man repeatedly evolved whenever I thought of Bundi.

If you are not a dawdler, at Bundi one thing you must never miss, the fort itself. Half way at one moment of time I thought of giving up the steep climb, unable to find a grip on the slippery stones that paved the abrupt near vertical way. Ascend was strenuous, risky and rigorous, ready to wring your stamina before it showcases the ever beautiful stance in blue. After the stones had stopped losing my grip, a lovely piece of flat land embellished with colorful bougainvillea attracted me. The garden is so carefully crafted with evocative flowers and green foliage in this land of sand and heat that it distracts you from witnessing the sprawling city beneath, whitewashed in blue. It reminds you of a similar view of Jaipur’s blue houses likely earmarked with a casteist philosophy. The view is enthralling and relaxing at the same time.

But I must neither be kept away by the bougainvillea dressed in pink nor the city in blue. For what I had come here is the exquisite expression of mind scaled down in size but not its beauty. It’s Chitrashala, the gallery harboring innumerable Rajasthani miniature paintings. When measurements, ratios and proportions are of utmost importance in miniature drawings, Bundi is ahead of Mewar miniatures. The use of full spectrum of colors and the refinement is superior to other Hindu drawings.

The gallery is not that big but hardly a spare inch is to be found without a stroke of brush. Many a king had patronized the miniatures but it was Rao Ummed Singh who initiated the gallery. Perfectly drawn miniature paintings in bright yellow, Persian blue, crimson and orange depicting stories from Hindu mythology attract your eyes. A touch of gold harnesses the imaginary. These drawings are so unique that from them rises the Bundi School of Art. It’s undoubtedly a mixture of the Mughal art form from Chunar in Uttar Pradesh and the Hindu style around seventeenth century. It’s foolish to describe these paintings when so much is written on them throughout the world.

The Boston museum of fine arts in USA has some thirteen Bundi miniatures which when seen can only be intensely felt but cannot be put to papers. Use of blue is so passionate here that it blends the sky and the city into oneself. Only when your ears had felt music flowing in the frescos your appreciation of Bundi miniatures comes closer to the artist’s feelings.

If you are floored by the frescos in Bundi, I would suggest Jiwan Sodhi’s book ‘A study of Bundi school of painting’ for further gratification.After I lay in trance, the gallery keeper comes to me and says, its closing time, Sir. The frescos still lingering in my head secreting endorphins, I tried to locate a secluded tea shop to eschew what mesmerized me in blue. Only then the over educated tea- man waived at me smiling.

I climbed down those slippery pebble stones, out of the fort gate.
‘Did you see the Chitrashala?’, he asked. I was flabbergasted still not aware of how he came to know of my visit to the gallery only a few minutes back.May be they read tourist’s faces, I wondered. More than an hour I spent with him talking rubbish about Chitrashala and how rain water seeps into the fort wall destroying sculptures.

Here in shops the modern generation still draws miniatures, alas in papers and old postcards and not on walls as in frescos. The paint comes from the color boxes and rarely from the natural colors and pulverized semi precious stones. One painter had collected a bunch of old stamp papers from the Bundi Estate and draws kings and queens and royal scenarios on them, looking much like a fake paper. A young man works in his father’s shop making tiny silver pendants shaped like a mango. This hollow mango can hold ‘atar’ or the perfume to be worn as a necklace. Still they are excellent to be watched and be bought.

Now feeling comfortable after my feet had beguilingly rested itself over a cup of tea, I got up in search of the ‘Baori’ or the step-well. This huge ‘raniji ki baori’ or Queen’s Step-well, built in 1699 has excellent carvings in stone and was meant for collecting water and also as a bath in this desert land. After this visit another bout of milk-less tea soothes me for a kilometer walk to the only cinema hall in the city. The shows ran house-full and so I had to calm my mind for a fresh pair of apples at a cheap rate

Now my legs ached after I had almost covered the best part of the city. I thought of the over educated tea-seller only to find him near the kite shop.

‘Not brewing tea?’, I asked.

He smiled, ‘ I must get a kite for my child, I keep forgetting everyday’

‘Can I buy you a kite?’ I asked. He didn’t answer but only his face told me how happy he felt with humility.

That very moment it struck me, how happy I felt too, buying a kite for the child I have never met. It’s bonus point, ‘buy one get one free’ I thought. A free joy, Bundi has given me with this visit.

(First published in http://www.calcuttaliterati.blogspot.com in 2019)

Romancing The Nilgiris

The breeze as freezing as it could be from one early morning of July, caressed my face but not that quietly as I had trusted it to do. I had settled myself on a wooden bench drenched in mist, placed alone on a mount very near but away from the bazaar and the clamor the latter negligently carries with it. The wait at the top of the world was effortless like a man pausing before the setting sun, watching it calmly and comfortably go down. The air carried rain easily and timidly so that one would never dare to call it a downpour. And believe in me these spindrifts of the mountains will invariably douse everyman in a sense of bliss. Quietness came with the breeze overtly. Only the leaves hushed not disturbing the peace that ensued.

It’s easy to draw on canvas the landscape of Nilgiris on the Western Ghats in India in rain. An artist carries hardly a few colors on his palette for this. The green is everywhere, on the left, the right, down and up, the north and the south, engulfed in a bowl of green till one reaches for the sky. But the shades differ from Celadon to Evergreen with Emerald, Malachite and Lime in between. Only a lone color is displayed over the landscape, intermittently broken by lines and dots of others sprouting from flowers, barks and the soil. The soil here is either black or yellow or rich loam or red. But the monotony of green never survives.

Someone had intelligibly painted the wooden bench green intermingling with the opulent grass mowed by nature, on which it stood. A tree that stands beside me had tilted away from the seat driven by the wind. Soon I had admired the beauty of the leaning tree the breeze turned blustery wind, often turbulent, that ensued for a minute interrupting my adoration for the tree that stood by oneself. The air here is ephemeral and whimsical from breeze to gust to storm or gale and will often punish one like a mother censuring her loving son. Then I looked down at a distance at the valley over a thousand feet below turned a bowl of green dotted with homes, coalesced, as if an impressionism canvas.

I was caught unawares in a childlike but trusting situation to find a free-ranging dog standing beside the bench where I sat. It had silently and lovingly encroached upon my arena comprehending intelligently the nature at a distance, waving its tail in a bid to friendship with me. She too must be watching the clouds, settle froth like over coffee cup, a thousand feet below where I wandered. After about an hour had passed unknowingly yet thoughtfully I decided to follow the road downwards which had brought me to the mount. Interestingly dogs in the Indian hills always follow travelers wherever they traverse. At a distance far away below waited a piece of pure white cloud covering the spire that rose from a church standing still in abundant lush greenery. The road to it was unknown but I kept walking leaving a plush property on my right. More I walked towards the church more it moved itself away from me in an elusive manner. The air felt light still burdened with the smell of wild flowers fluttering wildly in the midst of fresh morning rays from the sun, shining brightly over the meadow. It was when I came across a little gentleman of about eight years of age who like a full grown adult showed me the shortcut through the tea estates. He, little Mr Arif, waved at me first putting me to shame when I decided to recede a few steps to offer him a chocolate to bury my forgetfulness to express my gratitude.

The more I went fast down the rolling, sinuous and tortuous path laid across the tea gardens, keeping my feet adherent to the muddy ground, more I felt the chill from the blowing wind. I was in the midst of nature I had never been before. The green was in plentiful here, covering up to my waist and in whichever line I chose to meander aimlessly. My mind I felt was in full throttle about to explore and scrutinize the church nearing about two hundred years of its existence. But it was disheartening to find the chapel closed. Meanwhile the dog had followed me to the church. I wondered she too must have been dispirited to find it inaccessible.

After a silent wait for a quarter of an hour, a theist would assert that the God had listened to my wish, I found the keeper of the church approach the lone man standing before him. And when the large, oversized wooden doors and windows were flung open it laid bare the admirably, flawless stained glasses adorning the walls. It was an unbelievable feast for the eyes one would never forget till his or her last breath.

‘It’s your dog?’ enquired the church keeper.

I lied, ‘Oh! Its mine’

‘Then let it wait outside,’ the keeper replied looking away from me while entering the chapel.

After I was inside the shrine a musty monsoon smell likely from mildew and mould entered me,

modified somewhat by other church perfumes. The keeper seemed not to be aware of the whiff. It was a strong one, mysteriously baffling and incomprehensible in the darkness of the room. It reminded me of the lack of light inside the churches I had witnessed in Hollywood films some fifty years ago. I was afraid of such scenes in my childhood apprehensive of Count Dracula’s entry from behind. But when the windows were opened and sunlight poured in, the habitat and the circumstances transformed altogether, recreating itself over the time of Wagner and Brahms. Any schizophrenic would have heard Brahms playing his instruments at this juncture. But sadly I didn’t. I couldn’t help my eyes finding things other than the stained glasses, caring little what the keeper kept saying about Gods. The colored glasses were overwhelming, impeccably engineered and with immaculate maintenance one’s eyes are transfixed on them. Neatly drawn were the colorful layouts on Belgium glass, often man sized. How could an artist precisely articulate legitimate skin tones against the arrival of the fairies in quintessential chroma of amber on glass? I still wonder. It heightened the reality behind the story of Bible. An

inexorable spectrum of color scheme creating a unified aesthetic appeal to the viewer lies here to be relished, appreciated and cherished. A very few tourists are aware of its existence. The keeper though was not much keen to spare more time for my inordinate visual extravaganza. His fidgeting soon attracted my attention and I left the Church. I looked behind to find the church keeper stop squirming. Such abruptness provided a subtle enjoyment in me. The dog had patiently waited at the church garden and followed suit to my next destination. I had already planned a visit to an eatery at the bazaar which proudly displayed its name on a brightly illuminated billboard, THE OOTY BACKARY. I was much eager to know the history behind its spelling which I later failed, lacking a comfortable, witty dialogue as our languages didn’t match. It is common state of affair for many an outsider when visiting southern part of India.

It was already late afternoon and I decided to return to my hotel. So I enjoyed a freshly brewed hot black-tea followed by another cup of Nilgiri coffee, hot and fuming to match some pastries, which I rarely follow at home in Calcutta. The dog had quietly inherited for her good behavior a grand supper of fried rice with sambar, some kind of millet cooked with other sour ingredients. I bid goodbye to my unknown, unnamed, companion requesting her not to follow me to my hotel. She obeyed and stood at the eatery-front staring at me without expression or understanding. It was the last time I saw her.

The next morning I dropped a letter to my wife at Calcutta saying that I had made up my mind not to return home for a long list of ten authentic and valid reasons, the first of which is, I had fallen in love and a reason for the unknown four legged dusty, unclean creature who had taught me composure, humility, restraint and obedience at one go. And even if I do so, return home, I will surely come back soon.

I always knew it is hard not to fall in love with Nilgiris.

(All photographs by author)