The monsoon rains had covered the city in a blanket of green, a thousands shades of green drenched by the sporadic downpours. Metal and clay pots lined the streets to collect the rain.
A short distance from the crowded market, a large expanse of plantain trees moved carefree in the evening breeze. Beyond the trees, and not far out of earshot, Kumar could hear the faint strains of a male vocalist. He came to a small marble terrace and saw a man seated on a raised cushion with an enormous basket of mangoes placed directly in front of him. Kumar was sure that he was a nobleman or prince, but there were no bearings of royalty, no fly whisk bearers or attendants. He wore a long light-brown garment that draped down to his knees fastened with what looked like gold buttons. In the background stood a large mango tree bathed in raindrops. Three musicians–a tanpura and tabla player, and a male vocalist performed a raag. Rain, music and mangoes.
Kumar observed that the performers were intoxicated with the love of the music. He recalled the night he stayed at a Sufi lodge, a Sufi elder explained to him that at the heart of the arts in the Sufi tradition—dance, music, art and poetry—was an intoxicated love for God. ‘We don’t simply love God’, the Sufi elder had whispered to Kumar during the recitation of a famous Persian poem, ‘we are in love with God.’ And here among the plantain trees and a man who loves music and mangoes, a similar kind of ecstasy was found.
‘It fills me with pity that some people cannot appreciate such beautiful music,’ said the man beckoning Kumar to join him. ‘I can’t imagine that with only three people, music of such depth and richness can be created. Did you enjoy the performance?’
‘I love listening to music sir,’ said Kumar, ‘but performing it is better.’
‘How do you know,’ replied the man. ‘Are you a musician?’
‘I am not a musician sir, but I have always imagined performing and sharing music with an audience is more giving. And it doesn’t matter how many times a piece is played or who performs it. What matters is the artistic result. The greatest discovery of all is not the origins of a tune or song, but that successive incarnations of it continue to bloom across time and space. We have seen the take place just now. ‘
Putting his hand on Kumar’s shoulder, the male singer smiled at the young boy with an expression of surprisingly tender affection. ‘I really like what you said, but it’s the kind of thing I’d expect from a music scholar not a rusticated boy from the hills.’
‘It’s a subject dear to my heart,’ said Kumar.
‘I can see that,’ replied the vocalist. ‘I’d like to take up something you said on listening,’ the singer continued. ‘In every performance, the musician is the principal listener. My guru always reminded me to listen and to do so with my inner ear. He also told me to observe my breathing with my inner eye. He once described a rising cumulus cloud to encourage me to elevate and broaden my chest. He compared the control of the exhalation to a horse deftly making its way down a steep descent on a mountain pass. If it looks effortless when I perform, it’s because I have practiced it so many times that I don’t need to think about it anymore. I’ve internalized it, and each time I perform a piece or musical phrase I make slight changes to it.’
‘You appear so enraptured, so blissfully sweet when you are singing,’ the man commented, wiping the corners of his mouth with a white cotton cloth.
‘The voice in particular,’ said the vocalist, ‘sets up a vibration and resonance in the mind and body that pierces the heart. It opens doors to God. It tears down the ego and allows light to flood the soul. Many years ago, I was talking to a devout Sikh about the voice and the power of singing. He spoke of what the Sikhs call Naam. The best way to experience the divine essence within you and feel the presence of God is to sing it. Naam is a sound vibration he said, and when we sing it, the soul responds to it. Keep doing it with love and devotion and the soul opens up a little more and eventually God will come calling to see who’s there. Singing doesn’t give you the opportunity to much else but sing. I’m not good at meditating. I’m always wrestling with the object of my focus, but singing takes me in with no struggle at all’.
The vocalist paused to drink some water.
‘My guru had a great technique to relax the vocal cords and hear the sound vibration inside the mouth and body. I would first inhale through the nostrils and then exhale through almost closed lips making a buzzing, mumbling sound like a bumblebee. In the beginning my guru said I could touch my lips with a finger to better feel the vibration, and allow the sound to gradually vibrate down the back of my neck and spine. I still do the ‘bumblebee’ to warm-up and relax my throat and jaw every day.’
‘So the sound vibrations get into a space that tunes you into God’s frequency,’ said Kumar.
‘It gets you out of the way and allows God’s will to manifest,’ the vocalist replied. ‘There comes a point where you see God everywhere. You know the story about the holy man who went to Mecca and stayed the night at a mosque? The people there believed that God was only present in the mosques and it was forbidden to sleep pointing your feet towards the prayer room. A qazi or Muslim priest asked how this man had the audacity to have his feet pointing towards God, and the holy man replied: ‘turn my feet in the direction in which God is not.’ That kind of answer would have been enough for me alone to bow down, kiss the holy man’s feet, and become his disciple. The story goes that a miracle occurred that evening. No matter what direction the angry qazi turned the holy man’s feet, the prayer room turned around to greet them. I care very little for the miracle, but his words have been etched in my heart ever since.’