Shillong Stories III -- Singer from the Mountains

There falls on the scenic train route to Guwahati, a barrage on a river. The Farakka Barrage is a famous sluice gate system but then there are so many barrages on the swirling rivers of India flowing to feed man’s ever gaping mouth. Such barrages are the symbols of ugly technology intruding into the soft domain of nature, like plastic and metal tubes sticking into a newborn baby suffering from disease. And yet how can we call them ugly? They serve many, they irrigate so much land, and they make so many farmers postpone their suicide for another season. In any and every way we use the rivers, they bestow the gift of life, their own slow death notwithstanding.

Let others discuss (and hopefully solve) this while I tell you why this barrage in particular is the most famous one in India. This probably is the only barrage in India where a train track passes over it, and not only that but trains actually run on that track. And this is the very barrage that has managed to remain in the eye if a storm. There is a storm over water release to Bangladesh. Farakka Barrage is the system that governs the disputed water flow. One twist of the turnkey on the water gates and the high commissioner of Bangladesh would start pecking at the central secretariat. Don’t worry if you don’t know any of this. I did not know any of this before that train journey. So some of the well informed folks among us made it evident by their excited behaviour and their general move towards the coach doors in the evening that this barrage was about to arrive and it was special, and by the by the stories traveled from ear to ear.

Well, having been used to hanging from doors of trains running on bridges back home, it was nothing new for most of us. But the swirl of the water just below the tracks where the sluice gates opened was scary. I was scared a little and the thought of what would be the fate of anyone falling into this raging fury of waves, spray and mist was a chilling one.

The spirit of the 27 people suddenly faced with so much freedom, was confused. The eyes adapted to gazing at laptop screens and LCD projector presentations were jolted by the rolling seamless landscape that seemed to stretch on. Our eyes had not seen a presentation like this before. The ears tuned into the monotonous monologue of the professors and seminar speakers and even to the often exasperating class participation of those black sheep among us who were weak of mind and kept asking questions, those ears suddenly rang from a whole new set of sounds and were jarred. As if a hitherto unknown symphony was emerging from the old piano that never seemed to strike a jazzy note. Nature was speaking in faint tones; the ears could perhaps already hear the melodies of raw living that awaited us in the camplands of Shillong. And amidst all this new and strange experience there came a moment when the music of the hills and valleys of shillong actually came walking to us in that 10 feet by 4 of our world.

The man was frail, very frail. Have you seen the touch-me-not? Have you seen how frail the leaves look and how they shrink in absolute embarrassment when touched by man or beast? The innocence that dwells in that plant is a beautiful reminder to man that all that is lovely withers under one raw touch. And also that it thrives under the right touch; the wind touches the touch-me-not, it shakes it, jars it and swings it wild and yet the plant smiles and giggles. So much a simple touch can mean.

And so this frail odd man came to a halt in our compartment. Picture this now: a dark skinned fellow thin to the bones, disheveled tangled hair, yellow dhoti and dirty off-white kurta and a red ‘tilak’ on a dark forehead. And picture the most important component of his attire: the ‘ek-tara’ (a single string instrument like the mandolin) in his hands. The man swept our group in one mysterious gaze and began something so soulful and so catching that to this day I can’t forget neither the tune nor the words and not even the meaning behind those lyrics. Prithvi da became our translator and what ever excerpts of the folk song he could give us transported us into the lands of the singer and filled us with the sorrow that pulsed in his tuneful wails. Here I give to you the translation: the pathos I will leave for you to experience.

O my beloved,
You who have left this land of the red hills,
And have gone to the city to seek a fortune,
Know this my love,
That you do not belong there, but that
You belong here and here only,
In this, our land of red hills!
O my beloved,
If you would not heed my calls to you,
And would not retrace your steps,
Then go now dear, and don’t linger anymore,
Go once and for all and don’t ever come back,
For my beloved of the red hills,
You will forever remain a dweller of this land,
And of my heart!

The original tune and the full passion remains untranslatable, and yet I thank Prithvi for whatever glimpse he could give us into the heart of this composition. Believe me you who listen to the FM and the Mirchi and the City; that one song rendered in that train compartment by a frail middle aged folk singer using nothing but his ‘ghunghru’ laden feet and his ‘ek-tara’ can enter so deep into your heart and touch so much that is tender, can conjure up so much love and emotion in the air, that all the love in you would flow out and drown you in a sweet ecstasy, where your eyelids will droop and your head will swirl in a bliss you have never experienced. I had listened to FM and Mirchi and City before, and then I heard that song. And that’s where my search for the music of nature ended. And now I bless my Nikon that has captured much of that magical rendition for us concrete and metal fans to experience. The magic lies safe with me in my computer.

That was the true power of that folk singer; the imagery that his voice conjured up, the feelings that he aroused and the story that he told. We asked him to repeat his performance twice and to this day, my best memories from the trip remain of that voice of the singer from the mountains croon the soulful love songs and the train wheels joining the delightful rhythm. May the melody always reside in his voice, and may the tale of the red hills give many more men the pleasure it has given us. Go on, O singer of the mountains!