Autumnal drive

Even as dusk falls; sharp yellow, mustard, magenta and pink spots demarcate the green of lawn from flower beds. Colours carry their distinct caste and character- they do not wish to part with.

It was around 9 in wintry morning when sun is still stretching itself, letting its glory be eclipsed by laziness. I was driving to work. Colours were not allowed to gleam in glory as the light was still pale. A whole stretch of sidewalk was covered under dry leaves of varied hues. Dull and non descript.

Such stretches as do not attract attention.

Had it not been for a strange movement I observed in the leaves, I wouldn’t have looked. We pass many things on road, without ever caring to register their presence.

As I looked, I was shocked.

A man was rustling from among the dead leaves as a leaf. He was so sub merged in this milieu, it was hard to believe. How could a human being be so non- obtrusive, so non- intrusive amongst discarded leaves, to the extent of blurring demarcations between dew- soaked- moist foliage and human form? To be just like one of them; in colour and character!

I do not know if the man could stand up from his fallen as leaf posture to be distinct as a human being.

I drove on.

Then, I stopped. Was it curiosity alone! Something stirred me, like the rustling of dead leaves. There was a movement within; of thoughts, feelings…empathy! Such stirrings that visit unannounced, without reception committees and elaborate preparations. Surprisingly, these stirrings are the most fulfilling of our experiences. Reconnecting us to a part lost to our being.

They somehow pull us back to what we are meant to be. By brushing away a lot that is dead within.

I reversed my car and honked.

Once again, the civilized inhibition took the best of me. I remained seated, watching the man through rolled up windows. Camouflaging my whipped up interest in him with passive urban disinterest. I was watching him through the rear view mirror.

The man sat there, blinking, soaking in whatever warmth the sun had to offer. His trembling hands readjusted remnants of clothing on his body. From the folds of his tattered coat, that looked almost as used and abused as his body, he rolled out a carefully preserved piece of beedi. From other fold emerged a much used pack of match sticks.

The last glimpse before I drove on … he was still trying to light a match, with leafy, shaking hands.

Did I witness a shade of smile on his face for the mischievous stubbornness of matchsticks!

Pix- courtesy photosearch.com

A Book Lover's Dilemma

I had heard of the Maihar Band for the first time from my father. He wanted to take me to Maihar, somehow it never happened. And, he passed away. Then, I read an article by Dr Devdhar on Baba Alauddin Khan. The article nurtured in me a secret desire to pen a book on the amazing life of this genius who was a simpleton. The material his life was made of had all the ingredients for making a classic. Something akin to Irving Stone’s Lust For Life.

So, when I heard of a biography on the great artiste’s life being written by his great grand daughter, Sahana Gupta, I cursed my incorrigible procrastination. I was also quick to seek consolation in the fact that Sahana had access to autobiographical notes written by Baba himself. How could have I accessed such authentic material!

It was a comforting thought, this book was the best that could have happened to such a legend. Reviews were great.

Well!

I bought Boro Baba…Ustad Alauddin Khan, a biography written by Sahana ( Roli Books) and finished it in one sitting. An aesthetically produced book, with liberal use of photographs and hand written notes by Baba himself, after I finished reading, it felt I had read a newspaper article with detailed bio -data of the artiste.

In fact, at some places I had a feeling that the pictorial book is meant for children. For example, “…and there he caught a train to the Sealdah station, Calcutta.” Next page opens with a picture, with a note, “This is what the station looked like when Boro Baba reached Calcutta.” Great works of art are inspired by imagination. Alas! Nothing inspires imagination here, nor is anything left to imagination.

All the ragas he made are finished in one paragraph, like a bio data note. That, he waited on the stairs of his Guru’s house for three years and thereafter learnt music for 33 years under the tutelage of the same Guru is finished in one paragraph. This is it. You wonder, if there had been a printing mistake, was it 3 years or 33 years! If it was 33 years, by the account he must be close to 50 years of age when he actually went home. And all these years his wife( who had never seen him) waited for him. How did it happen? Simple curiosity, well, nothing of the sort is mentioned in the book.

When an artiste, of the reach of Baba Alauddin Khan makes a new raga, what creative turmoil he undergoes, how does he meet high standards of perfection he had set for himself when he invents a raga? What it is like to undergo such hardships for a long stretch of time, in penury, ill health and semi famished state for an undefined passion for music!

How could he produce such diverse luminaries like V G Jog, violinist, Pannalal Ghosh, flutist, Nikhil Banerjee and Ravi Shankar, sitarists, and Ali Akbar Khan, Sarodist. The book fails to dwell on it.

In her effort for making a great family album, the greatness of the artiste is lost. There is no mention of processes of his creative genius, at places you get a feeling that the story is turned into some kind of a self- help book with liberal quotes from self help gurus.

A highly evolved artiste like Ustad Alauddin Khan believed his music was a way to realising God. He had the perspective of a miniature artist on music, he was looking at the whole, the complete, the pure. And to achieve this state, he went through unbearable hardships, agony and pain.

To understand Shakespeare, one has to be a bit of Shakespeare oneself. And to pen the journey of a life time of such a phenomenon requires imagination and sensitivity of the highest order.

We should let a few things be where they belong- on a pedestal. In our effort to lend popular appeal to great art, we should not turn them pedestrian.

And, it is not by blood- line alone that one earns claim to great art. Baba Alauddin Khan’s life exemplified it.