SONG OF INSPIRATION

Extract from THE TIMES OF INDIA, Sunday, July 26, 2009 :

Column : SOUL CURRY

Title : SING ME A SONG

Subject : After years of domesticity, Ishwar Pati's dream comes true as his wife fills the home with the sound of music :

"The songs are blossoming again, struggling to come out of their vocal pods after a long, dry hibernation. My wife's singing is somewhat scratchy, with her lyrical chords gathering rust all these years.

Time was, during the days of our courtship, her beautiful, captivating voice flowered from her lips like a splendid orchid before large gatherings . But her singing could never attain full bloom, wilting under the pressure of marriage and consequent relocation . In the domestic cacophony that followed, her musical notes withered and then fell silent. So keen she was to fulfil her role of a dutiful daughter-in-law , and then a responsible mother, that she was left with no time for music.

I did make an occasional effort to persuade her to sing, at least in small friendly get-togethers . But my request fell on deaf ears. You think singing is so easy, do you- she would snap at me. A lot of devotion and concentration goes into it, you know. Can you ensure me that ?

I was silenced. I knew my transferable job and our growing kids were hardly conducive to furthering her musical aspirations. Though she never spoke of it, I could sense that in her heart of hearts she held our marriage and especially me guilty of strangulating her budding melodious career. I swallowed her unspoken indictment , though I still nurtured the hope that some day after the children had grown up and left our nest, the ember of singing lying dormant in her soul would be rekindled.

But when the thaw came, it was so unexpected that I was literally blown off my feet. In one of the cultural evenings taking place in our colony, my wife was somehow cajoled into singing. She joined the voices and soon she was intoxicated with the flow of songs. When the game ended, she was swamped with compliments. After the party, there was a palpable restlessness in her steps as we made our way home. She started humming to herself too! I smiled and let her be. Next morning I was not surprised when she told me that she missed her old harmonium. It had been abandoned at her parents house along with her musical muse after our marriage. But I detected in her remark something more than mere nostalgia for an heirloom. I could discern the spark of revival in her heart, that overwhelming urge to sing. Under the circumstances, I indulged her whim and instead of opting to buy a new harmonium locally, I went all the way to my in-laws place by train to fetch her favourite one. She is still tuning her harmonium and taking her time about it. No reason to hurry, she says. All the dust gathered by the instrument will take time to be brushed off after such a long period of idleness. Her voice too will need to break out of its self-imposed confinement. So I am waiting, patiently. But I can feel the breeze that has started blowing from her newfound buoyancy. Her lilting voice suddenly wafts from the kitchen, humming odd bits of ragas or a mix of old songs. It starts slowly like a cuckoos , unsure of itself, then rises sharply to soar over mountains and flow into rivers before plunging down to earth as her breath gives way from lack of practice. But she doesn't give up. She breathes in again before launching her voice once again on its tuneful plane into the skies. The barrenness of our home is now pregnant with a melody reborn. Yes, after all these years the song blossoms are flowering again and the air is filling up with their fragrant decibels. "

Photo : Courtesy TOI

James : The Singer

The pain, the angst, the fervour, the ardour, the poetry, the music, the symbolism, the sensuality, the fever, the passion, the beauty of it all....it's ironic that I had to listen to 'Bheegi bheegi' (Gangster), 'Alvida' (Metro) and 'Rishtey' (Metro) to assess his range and worth as a singer . I owe you a big thank you, K, for re-introducing me to James !




God forbid though, that I'd ever have to experience what this felt like, in reality.

K means the world to me. I'm incomplete without him.

Sunshine on my shoulders...

"My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;

Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain --
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten --
After the stillness, will spring come again?"

- Sara Teasdale, The Garden

You know, Mamoni (my mother-in-law) still hasn't recovered from her daily surprise of discovering me hidden behind the long green silky curtains of our huge window seat in the living room, brushing my teeth, eyes closed and a blissful look on my face, thanks to the sunshine streaming down on me through the glass. Even on the hottest summer morning Because I seem to share a beautiful bond with the sun that has always made me responsive to the way the sun does or does not appear on every single day of the year. Most of my poetry has been composed while I was lazing in the sun in our verandah, hemmed in by the sight of greenery on all sides, my wet hair soaking in the warmth of the tropical sun, my arms and legs basking in the sunshine and my sun-kissed face glowing with a feeling of well-being and exhilaration. Yes, the sun affects me that much and that positively. And, of course, I cannot refrain from bursting into song when I recall certain sunny days that form parts of a Kolkata winter. When you are picnicking at Falta on the suburbs of the city or repeating for the umpteenth time that visit to the Alipore Zoo that is so ritualistic a part of our childhood lore. Chomping away on hot sweet jilipis with a bunch of friends at the Bidhannnagar Mela, late in the afternoon or exchanging notes on a fashion faux pas at the annual college fest, when being spotted playing truant from the morning classes itself was something hot and happening. And of course, the number of times I've fallen asleep, relaxed and unresisting, a book in my lap and head in the clouds, in an armchair on the roof or on the parapet in the JUDE corridor, is too many to enumerate. Let it suffice that sunshine gives me a heady sense of hope and harmony, release and rejuvenation. Makes me want to do things. Sing songs. Write poetry. Grow plants. Germinate a novel. Dream of a utopia. Venture into new territories. Conquer the world.

So though I went all hyper at the sight of snow and the sense of an awe-inspiring silence, it won't last, I fear. I have a sinking feeling that my creativity and happiness will hibernate soon, horrified at the thought of a winter that throws leaves and life into disarray and toys with the idea of destroying the permanence that the sun embodies in my life.

"So dull and dark are the November days

The lazy mist high up the evening curled,

And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;

The place we occupy seems all the world."

- John Clare