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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