In the early sixties, when I was twenty and a visitor to Calcutta, a lean, bent by age guest to my sister’s place resembling the maestro S D Burman invited me to attend a bhajan at his residence. I accepted grudgingly, having had no involvement in such choral music before. I would have preferred a Gina Lollobrigida movie screened in Lighthouse cinema house in Chowringhee, instead.
At the venue, the sprawling hall was covered with a bright coloured carpet. A double reed harmonium was at the centre, with several pairs of burnished brass cymbals to make the clashing sound for rhythm. He emerged from the puja room smelling of a combo of camphor, redolent flowers and incense sticks. As if it were a signal, regular participants sprinkled in different rooms converged and squatted in a circle. He buttonholed me standing listlessly and beckoned me to sit by his side.
Before long, he started the invocation song, his voice guttural and quivering, sounding as if he had just stepped out of a cold shower. The group joined him, after giving him a head start, cymbals clashing at a furious pace. The mridangist who hotfooted late, picked up, though nervously, scorched by the censorious looks of the lead singer.
During the fast-paced piece that followed, he realised I was sitting twiddling my thumbs. In one swift movement he picked up a spare pair and thrust it into my hands. Never before had I held a pair of cymbals nor had played them in accompaniment to such a chorus. My tentative attempts to bang and clang in rhythmic fusion sounded awry, discordant and jarring.
Continuing his rendition, he directed a look which if I had met would have turned me into a pillar of salt. I edged away from him still banging the pair of cymbals in my own way. I didn’t choose to sing along, knowing my voice would sound like that of a peacock with laryngitis. It appeared he had enough. He thrust a gnarled hand in my direction and grabbed the cymbals to the subdued merriment of the young ladies around who all seemed to be bhajan veterans.
I looked at the picture of Lord Ganesh with pleading eyes. He seemed to smile at me indulgently conveying a message, ‘Don’t you worry, bhakta! Bhajan is not the only way that would please we gods. Making people laugh heartily forgetting their worries also would.’ I relaxed then but immensely more, when I was not extended an invitation for the bhajan next evening.
J S Raghavan
Email: writerjsr@gmail.com