by Parth Pandya
[box]An affair with music – and a musician – that goes through the flow of a raag. Parth Pandya pens a story about Vishruti and Pranay.[/box]“We’ll always have Bhairavi,” he wryly remarked, tilting his head ever so slightly on the makeshift pillow that his arm had made. They were discovering that as the months wore on, melancholy was the aftermath of sex. The space between their bodies was minimal but a strange discomfort had crept in. Vishruti and Pranay were rebels fighting the good fight, but the signs of impending doom had begun to creep in. Vishruti got up and gathered her sari that she had meticulously draped over the tanpura. She had resolved not to cry, but the odd sniffle and a solitary tear betrayed her. She put on her clothes, picked up her tanpura and slid out of the room. She knew that her heart had betrayed her mind all along – it was never meant to be.
Aaroha (Ascent)
Vishruti vividly remembered the day it all started. It was the 31st of January, 1948. She strolled about the ghats of Benaras with a deep sense of despair and sorrow, the shock of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination the previous day still rankling her. Silence reigned – within her and outside. Just then, a voice broke through with deft clarity, with the gentle notes of the Raag Khamaj. The words of ‘Vaishnav Jan To’ were applying a soothing balm to the hurt morning. She was drawn to the voice like a magnet. She didn’t remember how long she waited in the shadows, unseen, hearing the singer make his surroundings his own, by the sheer dent of his voice. Music had always been a passion for her, but she never could bring herself to give in the same way, neither was she as proficient as this singer clearly was. When the music suddenly stopped, she woke out of her reverie.
Pakad (Flow)
“Was it Raag Hameer?” she asked the surprised Pranay.
He smirked and said, “Is that what you think? There isn’t any hope for music in this country if even people in Benaras can’t understand their music.”
He followed his insult by walking away, thinking not one bit about the insult he had heaped or the person he had insulted. Music was his arrogance. A fuming Vishruti followed Pranay that day, as he strolled leisurely through the streets on the way to his home. She was unable to contain the unnatural rage she was feeling – she was not used to being spoken to like this. She followed him, keen to avenge his insult. His abject poverty gave her hope of an opportunity. She knew that even the most carefree folks have mouths to feed. Slyly, Vishruti arranged to have Pranay as her teacher.
Vaadi (Most important note)
“You know,” Pranay started, “there is a saying in Sanskrit – ‘Ranjayati iti Ragah’ – which means, ‘that which colours the mind is a raga.’ Present the emotion of the raga to have an effect on the listener.”
Vishruti looked outside the window, determined to make today different. Each time, she made up her mind to ignore him, spite him, in their lessons, but each time she found herself falling short in her efforts.
“Here, listen to this. This is Raag Kafi”.
As he launched into the song, she didn’t need to be told that the gentle strains of this raag related to the Shringar rasa. She didn’t need to be told that there was no stopping how the music seeped into her being and stirred a passion she had not yet known.
The music had got through to her first. The man got to her later.
Samvaadi (second most important note)
What is it that compels people to self-destruct? Go against their greatest impulses? Work against their better judgment?
Vishruti wouldn’t know. Neither would Pranay. They surrendered to love. They surrendered to music. What they were doing was wrong for the world, but it felt right. The end was never going to be pleasant.
Avaroha (Descent)
“We’ll always have Bhairavi,” he wryly remarked, as he saw Vishruti get up and walk out the door. He knew it had to end. Never mind that he was a married man. Never mind that their worlds were quite apart. His music was prime to him, his future as a musician hinging upon societal acceptance and an unrelenting pursuit of greatness.
Vishruti walked out of that room, never to see Pranay again.
Months later, she sat on the ledge of her window, watching the rains drip. She hummed a few notes of Raag Malkauns. She was lifted out of her reverie by a terse reminder. A new life drummed a different beat inside her. She brought her hand lovingly to her belly and called to it softly, “Nishad.”
Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, self-confessed Hindi movie geek, avid quizzer, awesome husband (for lack of a humbler adjective) and a thrilled father of two. He grew up in Mumbai and spent the last eleven years really growing up in the U.S. and is always looking to brighten up his day through good coffee and great puns.
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