ZOOM0106.MP3

BombayLocal

MUND NADI

It is hot in Barmer. My right cheek has swelled. Ulcers recognized heat. I am staying with amma here, a Bhopa. Last night we decided to attend Pabu ki phad. Happens rarely now. A local god. Reincarnation of Laksman. Bhopas sing and dance for Pabu. For two nights Bhopas from all across the region had come to sing and dance reciting Pabu's story. Anada Ram was the most prolific Ravanhatta musician. He died 33 years ago. His wife, Amma never sang after that. 
I am here to document her son. He never learnt Ravanhatta. He wanted to be a dancer. I have known him for eight months now. There were many other dancers from the community yesterday. Veer was going to show me one of his acts dancing on the mirror glass with fire in his mouth. He does not dance in the community. He is ashamed. 
I was awed last night. So were six hundred people. He got cut but still kept dancing. His blood leaked like water from a tanker on road. A long night ride to Barmer medical hospital on Hero Splender. Beautiful ride. Many stars. Inside: Two men had jumped from the roof together, as they told. I cant see one- others are talking about him. Second one is quiet, looking into distance. His chest crushed, Veeru told me he will cry tomorrow. Other four arrive. Car - truck accident. I came out. I dropped Veer back home. Amma and I decide to ride back ten kilometers to the village where music was still playing. It got cold. Thanu Ram jee started singing. Amma told me it is Khel gana. The song of the game. The game that gods play. Then she left. I slept soon there afterwards.  

KHELGANA

I met J uncle on a rainy very cold january morning this year, near an empty swimming pool. His room - 705, is just beneath my room - 805, where i am writing this. 

J uncle had his own quiet world till he met my sister. My sister, she is a kathak dancer. J uncle would not know about it till one day they meet in the elevator, she moved and her ghungroo rolled in her bag.

J uncle and his balletic wife sold their ancient house, where they sang every morning looking at the emerging orange sun over the Ganges. Their son lived in Delhi. They moved in with him.
 
His eighty year old soul is visibly sad. J uncle grew fond of my sister and attended one of her performances in Delhi. That day I imagine he was the most happiest person present in the auditorium.  

In many evenings that i spent in Delhi, we met, went on walks together, always in a circle crossing the empty swimming pool. We somehow never spoke when we crossed that swimming pool. Now Rati, my sister would be getting married in a month. 

One morning he called me downstairs at his place. He sat amongst 100s of old cassettes laid out on his bed. Looking at me, he said. 34 years ago i composed a song for my niece's wedding. Would you please play it for rati when Jaimal happens ! 

JAIMAAL

We left the small green bus at Rudraprayag, and left for village Nari in afternoon after meeting mr. Chamoli at Nautiyal sweet shop. It was our first day of the coming forty moons . In the days to come i would learn that there are no more Jagars left in the valley of shiva. Jagars were the singers who used to wake up gods, and wake them up in men and women as they hear. Jagars were men, but here an old woman who stood at the centre of an ancient shiva temple, smoke from the burning wood in winters kept making her look like a spirit. That smoke also lit hundreds of brass temple bells right behind her. women, children, men from nearby villages sat everywhere they could. In the morning when she had stopped singing i walked up to her and asked her how long has she been singing? She said Its been twenty years her husband died. He comes in my dreams and i learn from it.

Narayan Tushar Kaudinya