Bootleg Recordings (Sarangi Blues)

I am in Dello hill again. It had been a while, probably months. It’s morning. Sunday, the day is fog lit. It will probably rain later during the day. I woke up to the sound of Sarangi from the outer room. For the past couple of days two Gandharvas are staying with us. It’s peaceful hearing the sound of Saranghi. It is said that this instrument is the closest that can sound to a human voice. Bhopal and Dhurmusay, the two Gandharvas staying with us are probably related Mama Bhanij or something like that.  They have come up to record an ethnic track for the event. Bhopal is in the outer room practicing with Deoashis.

From my room I head towards the lawn for some air. Dhurmusay is in the kitchen, that’s the most I can go. He starts speaking, my mind still on the outer room. The Gandharvas are in charge of cleaning the kitchen for the day. He seems to be the only one working right now, washing dishes. I ask how his week went. It was okay, he tells me, so many people in town a shot at least to earn something. He has to work, he tells, for his family. He has taken a loan. He must earn to pay off his debt. If not travelling with his Sarangi he is usually in the fields working. I ask him what he grows in those fields, Dhurmusay answers ‘Dhan’.

Dhurmusay remarks that with time their music too has radically changed. Their playing has had to be confined to the Bollywood garbage or the local popular songs. He says this with a hint of dismay, on how it has been mandatory for them to sync their music with the popular culture just to make a living. In contemporary times their original folk songs that has been passed from one generation to another in oral tradition has been rendered obsolete; their lively wood is on the brink of extinction with modern times. That is perhaps why Deoashisis is having quite a tough time just to sync his music with theirs. Dhurmusay grumbles that in Darjeeling and Sikkim people have been so much consumed by this anxiety of influence that people don’t want to hear anything other than what they hear in the T.V. For them they got to make a living be it with their folk songs or popular music.

It’s been a while since they have been playing in the outer room. Hearing the sound of the Sarangi, two people from the neighbouring house have come to see what’s going on. One person is from Himachal the other a local. They looked dazed and seem to be enthralled by the bowed instrument. They have quietly taken a seat beside the bed and are anxiously looking at the Bhopal play his instrument. I don’t recall their names both work as paragliders hired by people up in Dello for the season. H has given the Gandharvas his key of the house. After their day’s work they climb up from town for shelter at Darjeeling Collective.

I have not met a single Gandharva from Darjeeling or any part of India. Dhurmusay and Bhopal are too from Nepal. From a small village called Jhapa about a day’s journey from Kalimpong. Dhurmusay informs that they had about forty houses in their village. All the male members of the house were Gandharvas. A Gandharva is a caste who made their living playing sarangi notoriously famous for their folk songs. At present they have had to either travel onwards towards their own country, to tourist centric places like Thamel, Katmandhu or Pokhara to make a living or migrate towards India in places like Darjeeling, Kalimpong or Sikkim domiciled by Indian Gorkhas. These men with Sarangi are a rare sight in the hills today. The two Gaineys just their Sarangi and their backpack never stayed in one place for too long. They constantly moved from Kalimpong, Sikkim and Darjeeling and back to their own country Nepal. In Kalimpong we usually see them on the footpaths either in Main Road or C.K.Chowk. Nightfall they usually took shelter at the Dharamsala below Mela ground.

In Nepal during the olden days the Gandharvas were the King’s messengers. They travelled across the country on foot from one village to another carrying news, information and messages of the kingdom. The Gandharvas were the only source of information and entrainment for the folks in Nepal. People from villages gathered to hear them sing, to hear what had happened in the Kingdom. With development and education slowly piercing all parts of Nepal their next generation Bhopal tells us would rather be educated than to sing on the streets for alms. H and I have not eaten anything since morning, we decide to go up to Saroj Da’s uphill to grab some food. Deoashis and the Gandharvas decide to take a break and join us.

                        

                           ***   ***

We are at Saroj Da’s place, a small tin tuck shop outside Dello guest house. It is almost 12 and we have come up here for breakfast. Dello is packed with tourists, the parking lot filled with vehicles. The water reservoir is being reconstructed it looks like a huge skating alley. H and I have ordered momos. It’s a Gandharvas delight to see so many people at one place. Bhopal and Dhurmusay don’t want anything to eat, they leave us and go sit outside the gate of the guest house with their stretched piece of handkerchief and start playing their Sarangi. We sit at Saroj Da’s talking, our momos finally ready. Both the brothers are really happy seeing us, it‘s been months since we came up here last. They ask us many things, of our where about, of the water connection, as we have our momos. Saroj Da was saying something about the village; it was then that I suddenly remembered Doeashis telling me something about him performing for the children a programme organized by the Bal Suraksha Abhiyan Trust. It was more than 12 and he had not spoken a word about it. I asked him regarding this event and it was then it all came back to him. This happens often with us, forgetting things. He immediately started making calls, we half way through our momos and the Gandharvas half way through the music had to rush for the event. They are quite a lively bunch. They speak in their typical dhakray accent; both Dhurmusay and Bhopal reroute from Dello to 8^th Mile just spoke and spoke through the journey. Bhopal at one point said that he would sing Santaram for the children in the event. He was nearly thrown out of the car.

                           

                            *** ***

At St. Joseph’s Convent. The hall is packed with children. On stage children are performing a play, it’s is based on child abuse and sexual harassment. Sister S. Subbha is the organizational head of Bal Suraksha Abhiyan. She has been tirelessly working for children rights for the past several years in the hills of Darjeeling. There is not a village in the district that she has not been spreading child right’s awareness. BSA has been carrying forth tremendous work. They have saved hundreds of children from illiteracy, physical abuse, labor and human trafficking. It has given the children a chance for rehabilitation and a shot at education, their only way out of this dungeon. It is truly breath taking to see children addressing burning contemporary issues not only of this place but of the nation. Though I was quite reluctant to be here but now that I have it is really moving to see children from remote villages of the district come together and participate. It is a heart warming experience to be a part of this event. I had only heard about B.S.A. and now that I am here I can see the kind of hope and inspiration and change that this organization has brought in the lives of these children.

Deoashis and the Gandharvas are on stage now. Deoashis has started playing his marchungha. The children seem to be enjoying it, it’s an unusual instrument. Most of them have never seen or heard of the instrument before. Marchungha is the oldest musical instrument in the world. On this part of the world it was mostly played by the women but now it’s almost vanished. It is a small instrument emitting some very peculiar sound. The Gaines have disappeared back stage. Deoashis is on stage alone. He has now switched on to guitar. He is performing a song he wrote called Handy Boy. The song speaks about the struggle of a boy in the highway, his suffering and the boy’s tryst with life on the road.  There is loud cheer from the crowd as he sings. The children seem to connect with the song. His songs are unlike most that have been emerging from the hills. IT speaks on burning contemporary issues that surround our everyday lives, issues that needs to be addressed. He has just invited the two Gandharvas on stage. He has now switched on to Ghaila, an instrument used for percussion. The Gandharva on stage have started performing. The sound of their bowed instrument has pierced through the crowd. It’s quite a sight for me to see them on stage. I have always seen them sing on the streets in Main Road or C.K. Chowk but I had never seen them on stage. And they are here today this Sunday afternoon singing for these children. I don’t know what it means to them but from the pin drop silence as children witness them perform I can certainly say that their music has touched most of us present here. And for a change they are singing their originals, songs that have been written by their forefathers and them.

“My Sarangi cries yonder,

From the forgotten corners of the village”

They are received thunderously as they take a bow and exit the stage. H and I leave the hall as soon as they finish performing. We head down to cafe refuel, Deoashis and the Gandharvas join the audience the event almost over. I have not been home in like three days, will probably go home after a while. For now we are just sipping our coffee waiting for them to join us in the cafe.

A.

 Bootleg Recordings.

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As Much As You Can (Green)

As much as you can
Even if you cannot shape your life as you want it,
at least try this as much as you can
Do not debase it
in excessive contact with the world,
in excessive movements and talk,
do not debase it by taking it,
dragging it often and exposing it 
to the daily folly
of relationships and association
until it becomes an alien life. 

Constatine P. Cavafy. 
1913. 

 

Bootleg (Week 1)

On the crossroads

My footsteps follow yours

From the window

The storm that rages this evening

The cold cold wind

It has struck my bones

I think of you.

     It is raining outside. In Dello again. Its evening, Saturday and it is cold. Axel is playing the clarinet, Deoashis the guitar each syllable that he utters resonate this hall of Darjeeling Collective. It’s an old ‘Indian Nepali’ song from Aruna Lama.  Outside, the rain belting on the flags of redemption that flutters. Music has brought us on this juncture again – a collision of Rambi, Relli, Pedong, Mongpoo, Kalimpong, Jhapa, Israel and France. This collision has a hint of angst, a kind of freedom one can never be entitled to. A collision of an immoveable object with an unstoppable force it has given birth to a symphony a synthesis of jazz and folk. A moment that can only be felt not comprehended. The sound it seems to be working on improvisation, on spontaneity, on movements, it strikes the bare fabric of our being. One moment it is there and in the other, gone. The only language that we speak of is that of sound, of music. No words, no sentences, no pictures is needed to communicate or capture the moment. I have just with me this pen, am grooving, that’s all it takes to understand the other.

     Axel has switched on to sitar, Depak on flute, Rohit on bass, Deoashis on esraj and H on the recorder. A kid from Rambi, Shrawan, he is also with us. He has just given his boards, Madhyamik, been two months since he picked up a guitar.

Don’t pick flowers,

Don’t kill animals,

Don’t litter,

Children oh children,

If only,

Don’t feel bad,

Don’t be hurt,

There ain’t nothing

You can do about the world

Except to change yourself.

These words had only begun to sink in the Gandharvas enter from the back door. My mind momentarily distracted from what’s going on.  They enter complaining about the rain and the gloomy weather outside. Bhopal and Dhurmusay grumble about how they had to walk from town uphill in the rain. Saturday is the hart day in Kalimpong, people from all corners of the sub-division, from villages and different parts of the town come to shop for the week’s supply. A Gandharvas’ payday, their moment of clarity witnessing so many folks visit town. The rain seems to have spoilt their day or at least half of it. Now that they are here both of them settle in with their saranghi.

     Electricity just went off. Shrawan has switched on a big torch and has kept it on the chimney facing upwards. It is dark but there is some kind of light, enough for me to write. H has come beside me he’s and lit the incense. Music has not stopped, everyone in their own place doing what they do best. The evening’s pouring on the tin roof above us, I can barely hear what going on inside. The wind and the rain is raging outside inside the sound of sitar, khahon, flute, base, guitar and saranghi groves in spontaneity with the storm. There are no words this time just the sound. It is for this moment, this moment alone. A moment of solace in the hard wild world outside, a world of chaos, of poverty, a world of freedom, a world where there is everything and nothing, a world of the incomprehensible. The darkness and the sound, it gives us the strength to carry on, one step at a time, the courage to face the storm outside, to protect whatever that it is that we love, to keep it clean and together. It is raining outside it’s raining during this season of wildfire in Kalimpong.

    

A. 

BOOTLEG RECORDINGS

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