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Parellel Lines
Bhujang climbed the last two steps to the terrace and breathed in the fresh air. It was still dark and a zephyr beckoned the first rays of the sun. The young lad sat atop the parapet as the dark sky came alive with notes from a sitar and Sant Meerabai’s bhajan filled the air.
He closed his eyes and a smile involuntarily spread on his lips. The bhajan sang of Mirabai’s devotion to Lord Krishna and years of riyaaz transcended the bhajan to an entrancing experience.
As the notes faded, Bhujang’s eyes were moist and he wanted to go down on his knees and salute in the direction of the old house. He wished to wash the maestro’s feet with the streams, flowing from his eyes; to give up everything and tend to the sitar. The morning raga was his succor as he strived for a better life.
He said a prayer and opened his eyes to the cacophony around him like the morning had skipped a couple of hours. Young boys cycling with newspapers and milk packets. Dogs waking up in the dirt and women walking to the nearby tap with plastic pots and buckets.
It was three years since Bhujang had rented a room in Sharada Niwas and seldom had he missed the morning rendition of Pandit Veerbhadra Das. Earlier he had played the same raga in the taxi he drove but the recorded voice seldom had the same effect.
∞
Subodh woke up 2 hours after his father’s morning riyaaz and climbed out from his first floor balcony to avoid seeing his father as he headed to college. Evenings, he half-heartedly joined his father’s music classes with several other students and disappeared down the road, the minute the class ended.
Bhujang saw Subodh at the park on Sundays, gambling away his pocket money and wondered if his voice was as melodious as his father’s. He wanted to talk to him about Panditji. But the boy was a picture of aloofness. Surrounded by his friends, his spread out on the cement bench, one leg dangling off the top of the back rest, tongue spewing profanities and pan spittle.
Subodh was taken away by the police on several occasions. The entire neighbourhood came to witness what according to them was the greatest tragedies of life. The son of a renowned maestro being dragged away for gambling and fighting in public space. Bhujang couldn’t bring himself to witness the event, where the maestro’s head would be hung in shame.
He hid in his room and when he walked out for dinner, he tried to ignore the discussions around him.
“Can you imagine? Panditji’s son turning out to be completely useless?”
“This is our doings of our past life….. Such awful, wasteful son.”
“I can’t forget how stoic Panditji looked. What else can he do? The courage comes from years of devotion. Only God can give him the strength.”
The next morning, Panditji’s rendition was filled with sorrow and Bhujang wiped a tear from his place on the parapet. He opened his eyes and the blue sky stretched out in front of him. He leaned in to catch a glimpse of Panditji through the window and wondered how he was able to sing even when his son was in jail.
Bhujang didn’t feel like going to work. He wanted to climb back into his bed and sleep the day off. He wanted to pray for Panditji and slap the irresponsible son for causing such pain to his father. He looked outside the window, the notes from sitar still filling his mind. Something stirred inside him.
He pulled out his log notebook and wrote out a line holding the book on the windowsill.
Subah ki roshni kis kaam ka?
(What use is the glow of the morning?)
He shook his head scribbled out the last word. Then sat on the floor, the notebook between his limbs spread out. He struck out ‘roshni’ and wrote, ‘nikhaar’. The rest followed:
Panchi ka gaana kis kaam ka
Ous dard deti hai
Jab dil shaant nahi hai
Jab dil shaant nahi hai
(What use is the chirping of the bird,
The dew is stinging,
When the heart is not at peace,
When the heart is not at peace.)
∞
Zindagi mein bhi signal hai
Zindagi mein bhi traffic hai
Har koi traffic mein fasa hai
Par aage chalet jaana hai,
Aage chalet jaana hai
(Life also has signal
Life also has traffic
Everyone is stuck in traffic
But one has to move forward)
One cloudy day, he wrote
Zindagi ka matlab kya hai
Kya hum soch sakte hai?
(What is the meaning of life?
Can we even begin to find out?)
He struck out the second line and tapped the pen to his forehead. After a few minutes, he wrote again,
Asmaan nila kyun hai?
Hum sangeet kyun sunte hai?
(Why is the sky blue?
Why do we listen to music?)
He shook his head, shut his notebook and went out. Next day after listening to Panditji’s soulful voice, Bhujang hastily came to his notebook.
Khulla asmaan muskurata hua
Chidiya bole khus hokar
Phool khile har taraf
Naya din,
Naya din
Pukare humme ek-joodh hoke
(The sky wakes up smiling,
Birds chirp away happily
Flowers bloom everywhere
New day, new day
Call us unitedly)
Over the next few months, Bhujang had filled his notebook with poems of every mood. He carried a small diary in his pocket and penned poems about the squirrel on a branch or the scorching sun on his windshield blinding his view.
Suraj jab nikalta hai,
Ujala lata hai,
Admi kaam pe jaata hai
Suraj dooph deta hai
Thaka deta hai
Duniya ko roshan karti hai,
Magar jala bhi deti hai
(The sun comes out and brightens the world
Man goes to work
Sun gives us sunlight
And tires us out
Lights up the world
But...
He closed his eyes and a smile involuntarily spread on his lips. The bhajan sang of Mirabai’s devotion to Lord Krishna and years of riyaaz transcended the bhajan to an entrancing experience.
As the notes faded, Bhujang’s eyes were moist and he wanted to go down on his knees and salute in the direction of the old house. He wished to wash the maestro’s feet with the streams, flowing from his eyes; to give up everything and tend to the sitar. The morning raga was his succor as he strived for a better life.
He said a prayer and opened his eyes to the cacophony around him like the morning had skipped a couple of hours. Young boys cycling with newspapers and milk packets. Dogs waking up in the dirt and women walking to the nearby tap with plastic pots and buckets.
It was three years since Bhujang had rented a room in Sharada Niwas and seldom had he missed the morning rendition of Pandit Veerbhadra Das. Earlier he had played the same raga in the taxi he drove but the recorded voice seldom had the same effect.
∞
Subodh woke up 2 hours after his father’s morning riyaaz and climbed out from his first floor balcony to avoid seeing his father as he headed to college. Evenings, he half-heartedly joined his father’s music classes with several other students and disappeared down the road, the minute the class ended.
Bhujang saw Subodh at the park on Sundays, gambling away his pocket money and wondered if his voice was as melodious as his father’s. He wanted to talk to him about Panditji. But the boy was a picture of aloofness. Surrounded by his friends, his spread out on the cement bench, one leg dangling off the top of the back rest, tongue spewing profanities and pan spittle.
Subodh was taken away by the police on several occasions. The entire neighbourhood came to witness what according to them was the greatest tragedies of life. The son of a renowned maestro being dragged away for gambling and fighting in public space. Bhujang couldn’t bring himself to witness the event, where the maestro’s head would be hung in shame.
He hid in his room and when he walked out for dinner, he tried to ignore the discussions around him.
“Can you imagine? Panditji’s son turning out to be completely useless?”
“This is our doings of our past life….. Such awful, wasteful son.”
“I can’t forget how stoic Panditji looked. What else can he do? The courage comes from years of devotion. Only God can give him the strength.”
The next morning, Panditji’s rendition was filled with sorrow and Bhujang wiped a tear from his place on the parapet. He opened his eyes and the blue sky stretched out in front of him. He leaned in to catch a glimpse of Panditji through the window and wondered how he was able to sing even when his son was in jail.
Bhujang didn’t feel like going to work. He wanted to climb back into his bed and sleep the day off. He wanted to pray for Panditji and slap the irresponsible son for causing such pain to his father. He looked outside the window, the notes from sitar still filling his mind. Something stirred inside him.
He pulled out his log notebook and wrote out a line holding the book on the windowsill.
Subah ki roshni kis kaam ka?
(What use is the glow of the morning?)
He shook his head scribbled out the last word. Then sat on the floor, the notebook between his limbs spread out. He struck out ‘roshni’ and wrote, ‘nikhaar’. The rest followed:
Panchi ka gaana kis kaam ka
Ous dard deti hai
Jab dil shaant nahi hai
Jab dil shaant nahi hai
(What use is the chirping of the bird,
The dew is stinging,
When the heart is not at peace,
When the heart is not at peace.)
∞
Zindagi mein bhi signal hai
Zindagi mein bhi traffic hai
Har koi traffic mein fasa hai
Par aage chalet jaana hai,
Aage chalet jaana hai
(Life also has signal
Life also has traffic
Everyone is stuck in traffic
But one has to move forward)
One cloudy day, he wrote
Zindagi ka matlab kya hai
Kya hum soch sakte hai?
(What is the meaning of life?
Can we even begin to find out?)
He struck out the second line and tapped the pen to his forehead. After a few minutes, he wrote again,
Asmaan nila kyun hai?
Hum sangeet kyun sunte hai?
(Why is the sky blue?
Why do we listen to music?)
He shook his head, shut his notebook and went out. Next day after listening to Panditji’s soulful voice, Bhujang hastily came to his notebook.
Khulla asmaan muskurata hua
Chidiya bole khus hokar
Phool khile har taraf
Naya din,
Naya din
Pukare humme ek-joodh hoke
(The sky wakes up smiling,
Birds chirp away happily
Flowers bloom everywhere
New day, new day
Call us unitedly)
Over the next few months, Bhujang had filled his notebook with poems of every mood. He carried a small diary in his pocket and penned poems about the squirrel on a branch or the scorching sun on his windshield blinding his view.
Suraj jab nikalta hai,
Ujala lata hai,
Admi kaam pe jaata hai
Suraj dooph deta hai
Thaka deta hai
Duniya ko roshan karti hai,
Magar jala bhi deti hai
(The sun comes out and brightens the world
Man goes to work
Sun gives us sunlight
And tires us out
Lights up the world
But...
