The Monsoon Melody

THE MONSOON MELODY
(A Short-story)

ROMEN PALIT
Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry

A request, almost a preemptory command, came from my niece Suro, “Auntie! now a story please!” I was busy fixing a new string to my Tanpura. I looked up and asked, “What kind of story? Of spooks, or a fairy tale?”

Now let me tell you a thing strictly between you and me in confidence, Suro or Surashree and Gitoo or Geetashree, the two jewel-offspring’s of my brother, were devastatingly modern in every sense from their bell-bottoms and pony tails right up to their manners and mannerisms, ways and beliefs. Even in their mischief they were no ward. In fact they were celebrities in Ajmer high society as the most forward or the younger group.

As a rule they were never at home. You could find them with anyone of their numerous friends (Nini, Ricki, Rita, Lali Jhuml, etc., etc.) or else busy with hockey. table-tennis or swimming in the local Railway Women’s Club. Specially now it was the vacation of Diwali and they spent all their available time outside. My presence here in Ajmer (I had come here for some radio-recording) caused a difference in their time-table, and leaving their usual pastime, they pounced upon me.

Suro raised her painted eyebrows and exclaimed with a slight pout, “Oh bother! Are we tiny tots to listen to such nonsense? Oh Auntie! you move about all over India. Why not tell us one of your exciting experiences?”

Gitoo, who was two years younger, was nonetheless less proficient in mischief, snatched away my Tanpura and cried, “Oh don’t be tedious. Why can’t you leave your silly students and music for a change. A good hearty gossip is good for your appetite, you know.”

Yes, this was an irrefutable logic. Placing my hands upon Gitoo’s shoulders, I said with mock seriousness, “Child, you want to hear a story, but what about the ingredient?”

“Ingredients” came the surprised duet. I explained with a smile, “Well, just as a puff of opium is to the Sadhu, a rose or moonlight to the poet, so is a cup of tea to an orator.”

With a giggle, Suro cried, “Heavens! Tea, opium, rose and moonlight are same to you; what an idea!”

Her sister shouted, “Mummy mummy! be a sport, send three cups of tea here. Your affectionate sister-in-law is athirst.” I interrupted her, “Why bother your mummy, she’s busy. Let’s see if you’re as clever in making tea as you’re in gymnastics and sports.”

“Sure, Auntie, Sure” cried the two sisters and they dashed out of the room.

After giving the last sip, I put the cup aside and said, “Now children, I’m at your service.” I made a mock bow.

“But your story must be very good, okay?” said Suro. An undertone of humorous threat was in her voice. I recollected for a while, then began. “I was then almost your age, say between eighteen and twenty, when I was terribly busy learning music and still more busy listening to celebrated musicians like Omkarnath, Gangubai, Kesharbai, Amir Khan and Faiyaz Khan. There was only one regret. Abdul Karim had passed away a couple of years earlier, so I did not get the opportunity to listen to him. Well, not only was I listening to these great singers, I was also attempting frantically to reproduce their styles, structures of Alaps, Vistas, Tans and Bol tans.”

Gitoo interrupted me, “Auntie dear, did you ever join the All Bengal music competition?”

I replied with a smile, ‘I think I did.” Almost simultaneously came the next question from Suro, “Did you also get a place in this competition?”

“I remember to have stood first.” I replied, suppressing my smile.

Gitoo was evidently pleased. “Sure! Sure enough”, she said, “have you seen our Auntie becoming second, Suro?” The note of pride was clear.

“Exactly” said Suro, “but Auntie, will you only go on beating your own drum? Better continue your story, will you?”

I felt slightly embarrassed and replied, “No my children, I was only giving you the -drop of the narrative, that’s all; now listen. That year we, the students of the Gita-bitan, decided to go on a tour of North India. The examinations, both academic and musical, were over. These were loads like the proverbial old man of Sindbad. Now we were free at last. Clear golden sunshine, the enchanting perfume of autumn blooms, the breath of holidays in the air made us long for an escape from the tedium of common life. Mahalaya had come and the Durga puja was close at hand. The sky had become crystaline azure without a speck of cloud on the horizon. In such an enchanting hour who would be the idiot to sit in a corner with a book under one’s nose, or to mug those silly, notes?”

I paused. Suro laughed and exclaimed, “Auntie, you should have been a poet; the studies and music are not for you.”

I continued, “The opportunity came too. Those who had stood first in their own class like Chiranjib in flute, of Shefali in Kheyal and others were invited to attend and participate in the All-India Music Conference held that year at Jaipur. So out we went. The ten of us, six boys and four girls, visited all places from Plassey in Bengal to Fatehpur-Sikri at Agra. I’m not a story-teller and am bad at description. You had better look up the numerous writers who have done this describing for me much better and more successfully. After finishing Uttar Pradesh, we swung to the West towards Rajasthan. Then after visiting Udaipur, Chitor, we sped to Jaipur, where for a week we spent listening to outstanding performances of celebrated artists and making our humble appearances as well. Then we came to Ajmer, your native city.

“Oho, you’ve been to Ajmer before!” exclaimed Gitoo. “Surely”, I replied. “But that was when Suro, you were teething and Gitoo had’nt yet made her appearance in the field. Any way, however, you may wax to frenzy of enthusiasm about this city, there’s’nt much to see here. So I…..”

Hurt to the quick, Suro cut in, “Why Anasagar, Dargah, Puskar Lake, Savitri Hill?”

“Agreed,” I replied in a consoling tone, “but in contrast to the Taj at Agra, Amber and Hawal Mahal at Jaipur, Lake Palace at Udaipur or Moti Masjid at Delhi, Ajmer is like a mere lamp before the sun.”

Unable to throw a biting enough retort, Gitoo merely snorted, and had to keep quiet. I gazed at them for a moment then continued, “So I didn’t come here to visit Puskar or Savitri hill, but to listen to music.”

“Music! In Ajmer! Oh you make me laugh, you simply make me laugh” exclaimed Suro, forgetting my recent dig. With a mock seriousness Gitoo said, “Indeed, music is here. For example, at Dargah you can listen to loud ear-shattering ‘Allah Ho! Allah Ho!’ in accompaniment of equally loud clapping of hands every Friday or the chorus from fat women with veiled faces but exposed tummies. But it would indeed be a thing of research if this was music or mass wailing. “ Both the girls burst into uncontrollable laughter.

I too joined them and then said, “No, I didn’t come to listen to pot-bellied women, nor had I become a pious Muslim to listen to Natia and Quawalis at the Dargah. It was rumoured that an old ascetic singer had taken his abode in Taragargh fort. It seemed he had amazing mastery over the Raga Malhar.”

Earlier, difficulty arose over some trivial matter and larger number of our party went home after Jaipur conference. Only Chiranjib, Shefali and myself came to Ajmer. At that time my brother, that is your father, was then posted in Abu and we faced some difficulties about our stay and food. Any way, on arriving here, we rushed to Taragargh.

Our first visit proved a disappointment. We found a few stray goats browsing on thorny bushes, that is all. The whole of the crumbling fort was empty and dreary with its walls and towers in ruins. It appeared to be a wild goose chase.

The next day we went rather late. After we had climbed the five hundred odd feet, it became dark. Being tired, we slumped down on the stony floor of the dilapidated veranda. Suddenly the pitiless skies became covered with fleecy clouds. A fine drizzle began with fresh cool breeze from the west. I cried, “Aha! now for a spot of rain, we need it very badly, don’t we?” Shefali exclaimed, “Wait, wait. Can you hear someone singing?”

Startled, we strained our ears. Yes, from somewhere was coming the fine strains of a vocal music. Gradually the volume increased as if someone had increased the volume of a radio receiver. But we could not discover the source of this music. We searched at odd corners and grots. Dazzled by Chiranjib’s electric torch, a viper uncoiled itself and disappeared amid the rocks. Some bats flapped their eerie wings above.

The sound of music grew even more clear. It was actually a duet: a fine enchanting melodious voice of a girl together with a rich contralto of a man. I yet recall the words:

Praval dala sanjhe
Juga jhuma aa bhuma para.
Umada ghana ghore jhara
Hindroley aayo re.

Coming to the last quatrain we came to know the composer’s name:

Kahe Miya Tansena
Teri gati abhiyakta
Surapati adhin hoya
Shishya no bhayo re.

The translation would be roughly this:

From the dark blue array,
From clouds leaning like pregnant dreams,
Pours, wiping out the day,
Thundering rain like victor streams.

And last:

Humble Tansen now sings
Unconquerable is thy might.
Indra bows before thy king’s
Sweep, a servant of thy light.

As I listened a strange delightful drowsiness benumbed me. My eyes became heavy with portending slumber. I felt as if I had become light as air and was floating as on a stream. The dreary enviorns of Taragargh was lost. In its place the sky seemed to envelop me. Rain was imminent. At the deep blue sky at a distance was flying a swarm of white swans. Close at hand upon a branch of a tree a peacock was dancing joyously with all its magnificent fan of plumes all unfurled. Closer still upon a cosy open veranda sat an old man and an extraordinarily beautiful girl upon a rug. At the rear sat two persons: one giving the drone upon the Tanpura and the other beating time upon the Mridang, the drum. With the duet song was coming the fresh enchanting fragrance of newly rain-drenched earth. They were singing the following song in the Raga Megha set to the rhythm Jhaptal. The translation of the song is roughly this:

The rhythm of the clouds now floods
With ecstasy of rain
The errant life’s bare thirst, moods
Robbing the heart of pain
And fills
With rapture’s undiscovered thrills­

Regal monsoon amazing comes
Over-brimming all shores;
Quivering beat the hearts mute drums
And you come breaking all doors
From above,
O ever new, O king, O Love!

Listening to the music, specially, the girl’s voice, I felt that futile has been musical training. I had a covert pride that I sang excellently. But in contrast to this lovely voice, my voice seemed like cawing of a crow before a nightingale. These were my thoughts while I listened. But without being aware of it, in the meantime the music had stopped.

I gave an involuntary start. To my utter dismay, I found myself again in the sordid surrounding. At a distance, I felt Chiranjib and Shefali were squatting in the gloom. The rain had stopped. The radium dial of my wrist-watch showed eight-thirty. Outside the tumbled down veranda, it was pitch dark. I called “Chiranjib, did you hear?” Cutting the gloom came his voice, “Oh yes, but yet I think it’s a dream.” “But strange, all the three of us saw the same dream and heard the same song!” I answered .

A bewildering pause ensued. Then Chiranjib spoke, “Amazing! I’m not sure, perhaps it’s a fancy or perhaps hallucination. I was about to explain away the thing, when he saw in the hazy darkness two figures emerge from behind a nearby boulder. One was taller with something perched upon his or her shoulder. The other one, definitely a girl, (This we surmised from the smaller stature) was bearing a small earthen lamp. They came and paused about fifteen yards away from us. The girl put down the lamp at a distance; spread two small pieces of rugs and sat down. Now I could discern that the taller one was an old man with flowing grey beard, who sat down and unwrapped the Tanpura which he tuned with great care.

The girl, who did not appear to be above thirteen or fourteen, was in white, with long dark hair. She seemed like a wood-nymph. We wondered what this strange pair was doing in this forsaken fort.

But somehow we could not go forward and talk to them. We felt as if someone had glued us to the spot, or perhaps had turned us into stones. Only to be awake were our eyes.

Then with the droning of the Tanpara, the old man began his alap or musical invocation. After he had sung for sometime, Shefali whispered into my ears, ‘Miyan ki Malhar’. I turned and signalled her to be quiet.

The old man began his musical exposition spreading the web of melodious notes. At the beginning the tempo was slow, the notes were simple, unadorned. But gradually the combinations of notes turned more complex, the pattern more intricate and the scope more complete. With his tempo, the blood in our veins quickened, our heart-beau beat faster. We never have heard such virile yet so melodious a voice. It had the sweetness of D. V. Paluskar with the gravity of Amir Khan, if I may make the analogy.

Again Shefali whispered into my ears, “Isn’t it the same voice we just now heard?”

I turned and frowned on her.

In the meantime the old man had completed hit alap, aochar, and nom-tom. Now he began a Bengali song set to the rhythm of Dhamar. Curiously the clouds above began rumbling in rhythmic beats, as if someone was playing on the Mridang from the unseen sky. This is what he was singing, 1 mean the import of his song:

Ponderous clouds are massed in the sky,
The lightning’s bright prelude
To large heaven’s thunder-reply
Of music and endless flood.

The shadowed skyline is lost in haze
Is lost the seraglioed earth,
The splendid play of clouds amaze
With its cadence and mirth.

O timeless dancer vestured come
With rain and measureless beat;
Lean down to life’s spiritless home;
Rhything new life with thy feet.

Of a new becoming open the door,
O lone eternal friend!
When monsoon breaks all human shore
With thy mystery descend.

My surprise knew no bounds, the style and rendering were classical and archaic but the words were quite modern in thought and substance and even in expression.

Slowly the song ended. The little lamp was blown out. All was again impenetrable darkness. Outside the veranda, it was yet raining in torrents. Chiranjib exclaimed, “Wonderful! Matchless! Oh for quite a while I haven’t listened to such a beautiful rendering of Miya ki Malhar! Who are you please? Please let us know to whom we are privileged to hear?”

But no reply came. Now I put in the query, “Aren’t you the celebrated singer Sri Hariprasanna Majumdar? We came here expressively to listen to you.”

Still none answered. I felt slightly irritated. Shefali cut in sharply, “I say, is this man deaf or dumb, or is he proud and standoffish?”

I lost my temper and cried, “Is this the way you talk to strangers, specially to such a great man? Where’s your manners, girl?”

No, none joined our conversation. In front lay the thick relentless obscurity, a foreboding silence. Looking away we could discern far away the dots of lights of Ajmer railway station. Also on one side were the strings of lights of Bewar Road and on the other the railway colony.

The harsh hooting of a night owl from somewhere in a rock, crag, shattered our dream. From the fairy land of music we were suddenly hurled upon the bed-rock of harsh reality.

Chiranjb lit his electric torch. All was vacant in front; no trace of the musicians we just now heard. Only at a little distance lay an extinguished earth lamp whose wick was yet emitting a fine tracery of smoke. Nearby were scattered a few odd petals of flowers, probably dropped from the girl’s hair.” I stopped. A little dramatic silence ensued.

Then Gitoo laughed. Suro exclaimed, “I say Auntie, was this a real occurrence? Or did you just made it up to fool us? Remember, we aren’t kids.”

Just then my, sister-in-law entered the room and said, “Hallo, Bonani! Aren’t you hungry? Come children, leave your aunt alone. Come, let’s all go for our lunch.”

Gitoo made no attempt to rise. Instead she asked, “Mummy, mummy, was there a singer called Hariprasanna Majumdar?”

My sister-in-law was going out; she stopped and turned sharply, and replied. “Hariprasanna Majumdar? There was no greater singer in his time. Why?”

I replied. “I was just relating to the children my experience. They hardly believe me.”

She said softly, “No, no. Why should it be untrue? But to speak the truth his end was both tragic and unnatural.”

Now the girls came close and clasped their mother’s hands from either side and entreated, “Mummy, mummy, please, please tell us what happened.”

My sister-in-law said after a pause, “We were then at Abu when the thing happened. The old man had died just a few weeks before Bonani came here with her friends. He had come to Taragargh with his little grand-daughter. And as to why he chose to make this place his temporary home is a mystery. Anyway, one day he sat down under a large dried up tree and began to sing. His right hand held the Tanpura and his left hand was on the shoulder of the little girl. He sang for a long time. He didn’t mark, because he was so engrossed in his music, the sky in the meantime had become covered with a thick blanket of clouds. Lightnings began to flash. Suddenly a thunder crashed drowning his music.” She paused.

The two girls asked breathlessly, “Then?”

My sister-in-law sighed deeply and replied, “Next day a few of his students, missing him, went up the hill in his search. The, found him seated upright with one hand on his Tanpura and the other upon his grand-daughter’s shoulder. But they were dead. The thunder had robbed them of life.”