It had been many days
since Manan came back to the town. Nothing about the place had changed in
particular. Plodding along the road he was lost in the never ending thoughts.
His meditation had now taken a different course. He rushed frantically to catch
the last bus to Sindri. The bus made no response and was soon out of sight.
Dejected, he continued walking. The brooding dusk had hemmed the last sunrays.
But he could still see the clearly the expanse of the vermillion (Sindoori -after
which the town was named) soil that had just made its advent. Yes finally he
was almost there. The rail whistle broke the silence of the milieu .It conjured
up something that dated back to the precious memories.
*********
Unlike the other days this
time the evening was scheduled not only for Mishraji’s tea and pakodas. Manan
had to buy his acoustic guitar. On the way back the three were disappointed to
see that they had missed the train by a whisker. Just the other moment Karthik
noticed that the train had stopped. The driver signalled by the inviting hand.
Soon they were ready the next run in pursuit of rejoice. Catching the train
they caught a relaxing breath.
“Good lord. we didn’t miss
the train. But Mishraji would be watching the way for us. “said Raghav.
“Don’t worry about that.
Make sure that we don’t miss our night feast. Milan gardens at sharp nine o
clock. “Manan said with a notorious smile.
“Hell. You must have
reminded me about that. At least I would have managed with the turban. Are we
supposed to go like this?”Raghav blurted out anxiously.
“Calm down. It’s not the
first time we are doing this. And who cares to notice us in legion of guests.”Karthik
intervened.
“But don’t you remember
that the guards have begun to recognise us. Though they do nothing yet they
pass ‘what are you doing here’ smiles frequently.”Raghav asserted.
Apart from studies there
are a lot many things that an engineering college teaches you. Makes you a
master in masquerading. Teaches that the distance between the hostel and
college can be hundred times its displacement. Teaches you that your birthday
is a celebration for everyone except you.
**********
That was the time when
even a train used to be an acquaintance. Now he was a stranger to even a bus.
Manan had a smile as he walked through. A smile on the vagaries that time had
brought.
At the extreme end he
could see the road diverging into two. One was the main road leading directly
to the college campus. The other was narrow and surrounded by deep woods.
Forlorn and silent. It was more of his whim than a desire to take the latter
betwixt the two. Many weeds had cropped up along the side of the road. Moon was
now his only company. Light was so scarce by now. The streets seemed like an
obscure labyrinth running from here and there. Manan saw the silhouette of a
factory or rather ‘the’ factory. He turned his eyes towards it. Silent it stood
tarnished by the unremitting time. Streaks of grime ran through the walls of
soot eaten walls.
**********
Clutching the window bars
Debo gazed out at the smoke coming out of chimney of the factory. It was a
daily affair; nothing new about it. He loved to see the chimneys kissing the
skies. For a child like him nothing in the world could have been more
enthralling than those two Eiffel towers.
Yes, Eiffel tower. In
Paris it is. Debo had a tight grip of geography. He had scored 49 on a 50 in
the test. “Why don’t the smoke do not go straight upright?” he asked his
brother. He always used to pester his brother with myriads of questions fired
one after the other.
“Because the air blows the
smoke with it perhaps” answered Ratish casually; busy in his studies.
“Then why only towards the
right. I’ve never seen it go left.”Debo asked now leaning against the chair.
Ratish tried to eschew all
his questions but he could not help without answering looking at the
perspicacious eyes seeking an answer.
“I don’t know Debo” he
said gently,
“Bhaiya, there is a tall
slouching man who sits up there in the big room. I often see him just sitting
and doing nothing. He simply orders the others and never bothers to do anything
by himself. Is he the owner of the factory?”
“No. He is just an engineer.
His work is to only give directions.”
“Did he get a fifty on
fifty when he was in fifth standard.”
“Not necessarily. For
becoming an engineer all you have to do is to be good in science I suppose,” Ratish
said and hurried for his piano practice.
Science is not that hard. It’s
just a bit tricky. Debo muttered his thoughts to himself. He rummaged through
the contents of the drawer and found out his test papers. Geography 50,Hindi
39,Bengali 42,Maths 40,Science 35……He laid a searching glance on the paper.
Tiny characters were mired in red ink.
What is fertilisation the
question asked.
The
process of adding fertiliser to the soil.
Debashish could not find
anything wrong with it. Of course his father worked in a fertiliser factory. He
was sure for at least that question.
“Debo take baba’s lunch. It’s
almost two o’ clock” called her mother from the veranda. Debo glared at the
clock. The dial had no digits but simply four dots on twelve,three,six and
nine. He always bemoaned about the way its manufacturer had made it. He may
have flunked in arithmetic. But he had devised a smarter way. At 1:50 the clock
made a tick mark in the mirror on the opposite wall. Debo turned back. Combing
his hair and grinned at the clock in the mirror. Yes it was the right time.
**********
The iridescent lightening
grabbed Manan’s attention as he walked. The board read in bold letters ‘Milan
Gardens’. For the first time he bothered to see the name of the bride and
groom. He stopped for a moment. He felt a vicarious joy by seeing the college
students entering the party. Finding them out was not a hard task. For who
wears a turban with a chappal. A coat over a T-shirt that has not met a wash
since ages. Crowd was blowing in from all directions and he stood at the
entrance gate watching them go in. He realised that it was now not propitious
to stand there anymore.
Manan had reached the
motel by now. Putting his things aside he laid on the bed imbued with
drowsiness. He stretched his hands for the watch. His spectacles were not on.
All he could see was a tick mark. It was 10:10. He chuckled closing his eyes
for sleep. An old thought had stroked probably. The last time he talked to Sir
was only eleven months ago. He didn’t inform him of his coming. His guitar lay
on the adjacent table. The song “ekla cholo” was playing on the radio. He was
sleeping by now in the lap of music.
Manan woke up in haste and
found him amidst the darkness. There was a power cut. On asking the bell boy
said that it would take about an hour or two. The transformer had developed some
problems. The heat was unbearable. Manan opened the windows. Sleep was no more
in his eyes. He saw the college building at a distant end. There was a building
next to it with the yellow square orifices breaking the chain of darkness.
The bell boy came with a
candle and kept it on the table. Light suffused in the room. Manan was
constantly watched the flame trying to unravel the knots of indelible memories.
*********
“What do you guys expect
from this little candle? Raghav please go and get another one.” Aftab shouted
from the common room.
“See I lost the won match because
the dim light. I thought the ace to be a card of two” he added.
The huge audience watched
the game of twenty eight. As Raghav entered the room he saw Karthik grabbing
his phone in the mouth and sticking a page on his wall. Raghav took a closer
look of the page. All he saw was a circle with alphabets here and there. The
signs were out of his comprehension.
“What is this? A dart or
something” he asked. Karthik shook his head. “Scales and chromatic
signs………..well, just a way to remember my music lessons.” Karthik explained.
“At least wait for the
light to come, you idiot.” Raghav said and took a candle. He saw Karthik change
so much since he joined these days. A person snoring whole day had begun to
wake in slumbering nights. He remembered once he played the keyboard whole for
hours only on his ring and the little finger. The next day his hands were
swollen. On asking he said “these two fingers have always been so lazy. It was
just their punishment.”
*********
Mellifluous music echoed
by the touch of the determinant fingers on the piano. The fingers were too
short for the keys but stubbornness compensated the difference. Debo had to
make it anyway.
“Bhaiya which is better. A
guitar or a piano.” Debo had asked one night while going for the bed.
“Piano , I think” He
answered with a mischievous smile pretending that he didn’t know the intention
behind the question.
“Why not a guitar” Debo
asked.
“What was the used of
asking then.”
“Well, do know about
Subroto. The master’s son. He had a cut in his finger when he played guitar for
the first time. Have you ever tried it?”
“I was in eighth standard
or it was ninth I am not sure. It was the year I first performed in the FCI
cultural festival. There I got a chance to see guitar for the first time. It
belonged to Patol Babu. He also told me that piano and guitar are based on the
same notations. Patol babu can do magic with the strings. We had to satisfy
with a second prize. But yes his hands did felt hard when I had a handshake
with him.”
“I………..I want to learn
guitar.” Debo had said that day his eyes sparkling with alacrity.
“Debo, baba had to be
convinced that do well with piano presently. You know what I mean. Well it’s
already too late. C’mon grab a sleep.”
**********
The azure canvas of sky
had begun to be painted by the smoke. Debo leaning on the balcony watched the
chimneys. It made him feel lively. For him it signified the initiation of the
cycle of life. Hundreds of workers leading on to their work. Uncle Khalid
opening his shop and small children buzzing around like bees with coins in
their tiny hands. Bedlam of chirruping of sparrows on the roof. Battalion of
flies attacking the chips spread on Meena Aunty’s roof kept for drying. Perhaps
she forgot to remove them the last evening. Durga Puja is almost at doorsteps.
Everybody seems indulged in the works.
A new wave of music flew
in the ocean of sounds. Debo rushed downstairs. Her mother was playing veena .
He stood there motionless entranced by the beauty of the moment he confronted. If
goddess Sarawati really exists her mother was the living paradigm. In the
tumultuous world her music was like an oasis of serenity. She stopped as she
saw him. Smiling she elevated her questioning brows. Debo came near and took
her hand in his. Ensuring that the strings had not hurt her. He kissed the
hands feverishly.
*********
The three men were huddled
together on the scooter with a ‘my days have come’ saying looks. A peevish
screech brought the scooter to a halt. “What worse could I expect now. First of
all these fingers have already given me an answer only in the first two weeks.
Seriously, music is no child’s play” said Manan busy in making all the exertions
to fix things up.
“It seems that the rest of
the one mile has to be done on foot” said Raghav.
“Hundred pessimists had
died before you were born” said Manan cutting through his lines.
“Bunty’s shop is about
five minutes from here. Let’s drag this scrap up to there.”Karthik said.
**********
“A mile still to go…”
thought Manan sitting in the rickshaw. Through the windows he saw the tree
running behind. Not only trees but the time too seemed to run behind. Running
behind by four years. The second year of college and the first music class. He
was now hearing the winds repeating the same rhapsodies. I have been working on
railroads……..Long Long ago…….singing hills…………Come September….one coming after
the other incessantly. He didn’t even realise that he was there at Sir’s house
by now.
‘Debashish Banerjee’ the nameplate read. He
rang the bell. Sir’s wife showed up. It took her no time to recognise him.
Eleven months are not too long he thought. Sir had gone out for some errands.
Manan had to wait. He sat on the armchair twiddling his thumbs. The room
consisted of panoply of instruments associated with music. Manan’s eyes shifted
to a sparkling trophy in the showcase. ‘FCI Cultural Festival, Sindri 1990’
First Prize. It was not that Manan could see those small letters from the
distance but that he could read them. Sir had told its story numerous times.
Each time forgetting that they already knew it. Still they never complained.
They loved to see him getting lost in the halcyon days.
**********
Thousands stars glittered
in the curtain of night. The auspicious occasion of Durgashtmi had elevated the
programme to the eleventh sky of blithe and joy. Debo was ambling near the
stage. Today he was not nervous. “Music is not about mugging something up and
vomit it in front of others. It is spontaneous like the flow of the river” his
baba had once said. The day he performed oblivious to everything around him as
if it never existed. There was just his father’s voice, the ethereal music of
veena, sound of his brother playing harmonica and his piano and their
confluence into the stream of oneness. Returning home Debo was mesmerised to
see his reward. Patol Babu had come all the way to give him a guitar. Nothing
more could have been asked by that boy of fourteen at that moment. He knew that
all this was more than a serendipitous happening. He saw the face of his
brother . Ratish just had a smile on his face. A smile that demanded no
returns.
**********
Manan cleared his throat
and started recollecting how to start at the sound of the footsteps. But as Sir
came everything seemed useless. He embraced him immediately, smiling
exultantly. “You here like this. How come?
Any work or something.” Sir asked.
“Sir I have shifted to
Dhanbad permanently.”
“That’s something great to
hear. So still practise or forgot it altogether.” He asked pointing to the
guitar.
“No, no. I do play it
occasionally.”
“What about the others.
Where are they all nowadays? Where is Karthik?”
In a card castle a single
blow is enough and the cards fall incessantly one after the other. Same is true
with Sir. A new matter starts and it takes him no time to come up with things
one after the other. The conversation continued for hours. Cups of tea helped
continue the chain of talking. Manan noticed that today Sir’s wife (Reema as
was her name) didn’t complain about it.
**********
“Reema, bring some tea.”
Debashish said playing the piano casually.
“Tea, tea, tea. If you
want then come and get it yourself.” She answered curtly.
“See Karthik, my position
in my home.” Sir said with a grin.
Karthik simply smiled.
“Sir who is this Frank
xave…Xavier or whatever it is. Never heard his name before. He shares his name
with Mozart in this particular composition.” Manan asked having the songbook in
his hands.
“‘Requiem’ it is if I am
not mistaken.”
“Yes Sir”
“He was his student. People
say that in his last days when Mozart was having a deadly disease he left his
composition incomplete. He was only about thirty. He dictated his passages to
Frank Xavier . Frank completed the ‘Requiem’
in the hope of emulating his teacher’s achievement but Mozart did not
live long enough to hear his last symphony; one of the greatest among the other
forty one.”
Meanwhile a cup of tea had arrived on the
table. Sir simply chuckled. There was
another kind of chemistry between him and her wife. Her sour remarks could only
be construed as the words of affection by him. Their marriage had been eight
years ago but their love was twelve years old.
**********
It was the year 1996.
Debo’s day now didn’t used to start with the chimneys. Well for now there used
to no morning shifts. The factory had to trim its sails and so many of the
employees. The factory was not earning much profit everyone said. Some of the
families had left the town. In the spare time to get out of his ennui Debo’s
father had started music classes. At least once Debo managed to get into the room to offer
Baba betel nuts. This was not out of the putative service to his father but in
order to have a furtive glance of the girl; a girl with beady eyes . One day
Baba scolded him in front of all his students. “Thousand times I have said that
I will eat them after the dinner. Will I teach them or keep eating.”
The very next day out of
his whim he went to the adjacent room and played his guitar loud enough to be
heard parallel to the classical singing classes. His fingers manoeuvring on the
guitar in greatest possible speed all in order to woo the girl he loved.
**********
It had been nearly two
years since Manan and Karthik were going for the music lessons. Unlike any
other day today Karthik was nervous. He never acted prissy like some of the
student who came apart from the college but Sir unintentionally showed some
inclination towards him. His eyes always expected more from him. Sir had once
asked him to make up a new tune, a tune
of his own. So there he was; ready with it. While he played it Sir listened
with his eyes closed. After it ended there was no laud; no complaints either.
He simply said to note it down somewhere. Karthik wanted to know if there was
something wrong with the tuning. “Oh I had nearly forgotten about it. Yes it
sounded so innate as if; as if a child was singing.” That tune was harking Debashish back to the
past.
*********
Debo had been in mare’s
nest since the past week. Patol Babu had asked him and Subroto to create a
composition of their own. As a boy of fifteen he had learnt a lot many things
about guitar but making up a tune was something no one taught and that too up to
the expectation of his teacher. Out of nowhere a thought had occurred to him
that however his tune be it should be better than Subroto. His searching mind
used to wake up with stars. He had created a many but all seemed vapid and a
mere repetition of each other. One day Ratish knowing the situation in which
his brother was went to him.
“You know Debo a
kasturi mriga throughout his life
desperately follows the smell of kasturi in order to find it. It ultimately die
in his pursuit. And the kasturi lies nowhere but in his navel.”
Debo smiled.
“Don’t you sometime think
Debo that everything is like that mirage? What we people call ‘mriga- trishna’;
aren’t we also doing that with our lives. The thing for which we keep searching
outside is not out there but within. Am I boring you out in the sun? “He asked
with mincing words.
“No, I want to listen.”
“Debo the world do not
have all the answers of our questions. Music for example is a dormant serenity
that dwells in all of us. It is like the impalpable medicine that heals the
pains of the listener. A musician’s work
is to render service to others in the name of best within him. Music can never
be comparative. Every piece is one of its kind. In real terms it is everyone’s
or maybe no one’s.”
“So do you mean ambition
is wrong?”
“Ambition is never wrong;
greed is. Tagore had once written. When one stretches his hand to pluck a
flower of lotus in a pond the waved even take it farther from him. It is not
that his want is wrong but that it is ephemeral. The intrinsic truth is that
the pond suits the lotus the best.”
**********
Debashish had very soon
realised that there was only few days left for the boys’ graduation. He was
simply speechless at the sudden passage of the time. Many things were left to
be covered up. In those last days he wanted to teach them every intricacy of
the art. Maybe the same desperation Mozart had in his last days. In the last
class nothing unusual happened as such. He gave Karthik a songbook ‘Tagore on
Staff’ it read. He took it with utmost reverence. While everyone was busy in
talks Debashish went to the table and took a songbook out of his whim. It was
Karthik’s. He glanced through the pages as if recalling the whale of time they
had together. Turning the last page he saw notations of a tune he knew but not
know. He looked at the title at top. ‘Baby’s mouth full of grapes’ it read. He
had a smile on his face. A smile of satisfaction.
That evening he didn’t
come through the main road. He took the road less travelled by. The factory
stood there. The initiator of the cycle of life. In the past seven years the
world around him had turned upside down. But that building stood there
witnessing the waxes and the wanes. In the past few years he had started
smiling again. The music classes were a pretty respite from the dolorous
memories of the past. The older days seemed to have come back again. Maybe he
had misunderstood the fog to be the smoke.
He averted his eyes and kept on walking.
**********
Milan Garden was decorated
as a bride. FCI alumini meet it was. The college had also been given the
invitation. Manan, Karthik and Raghav sat in one corner. For their disgrace
they were for the first time there ‘invited’. Unlike the other days they didn’t
feel hungry for a change. Sir was also there. He had been quiet for a long
time. But that quietness didn’t last long and neither did the unsaid feelings
that Sir had sequestered to himself till then. “In 1990 a similar programme was
held here. A boy had lived one of the best day of his life that day.” He began
in a wistful tone. “But the fate had
decided something else. My day used to start with watching the smoke coming out
of the chimneys. One day it was closed shut. I still remember September 2002 it
was. My brother who had been everything to me committed suicide for some
reasons. My father was never heard singing after that. Maa never played veena
anymore. Happiness had gone out of our lives and what remained was darkness of
sorrows. Sometimes I really feel helpless before the ebbs and flows of life. I
hate changes. Sometime it takes you up’; up to the heights of fame,
achievements and joy and the very next moment drops you down in the way you
never expected. Yesterday I went in the old township. There were same houses
but new faces there. There was no chirruping of birds. The shop next door had a
lock but no flock of children around it. But the factory was there with the
grime of melancholy strains. As I started to depart I remembered something my
brother once said to me. ‘Don’t be sad because it is over. Be happy because it
happened’. I smiled and walked on. Yes somethings are beyond the reach of the
transient time.”
Based on my Sindri days with Sir and my Piano
- By Preeti Singh
