He got on the bus from the IIT-gate stop. And he started playing the his string instrument.(Later when I googled for stringed folk-instruments of India, I found that he was playing 'ektar' one of the main accompaniment of Baul songs of West Bengal.)
He simply stood just behind the bus-driver, leaning against the steel railings. As he played his ‘ektar’ it rang crisply and clearly inside the bus. May be that's when I would have noticed him. Because I never thought that an instrument like that could sound so loud.
After doing up and down from my room to college for an year, by the suburban trains of Chennai, I am used to seeing blind people sing and beg. So much that I recognize some of them. Most of the time, their songs are attempts at arousing pity. Though I don't understand Tamil well, I have observed that people gave money to those who managed to evoke pathos through the lyrics. I consider them a nuisance or sometimes take pity on them, as my whim; but have never tossed even a single coin to them.
I am no music pundit. But listening to him play ‘ektar’ was an intimate and personal experience. It seemed to add life and meaning into the predictable life of mine. I was enchanted. The music seemed to percolate everything around. As bus moved past the Delhi Metro constructions, it added a rhythm into the work in that sultry afternoon. This may be common description of the effect of music, but I experienced it in its full bloom for the first time.
It was pure music. Music without any pretensions. So was the musician--he was just another tramp. Age between 40 to 50, disheveled hair and dirty clothes are ample description of him. His only striking feature was that the tip of his forefinger which was deformed by pressing against the string of ‘ektar’.
He played for twenty minutes before he got down somewhere before Safdarjung airport. There was a sense of generosity that flowed out from him with the music. I said to myself "freely you have received, freely you shall give". There was no haste to collect money and get into another bus. He went to those he saw taking out their wallets or fumbling their pockets. I gave him a generous three rupees. But it took me a little more to realize that he was not a beggar, but a musician. He didn't need no generosity of people like me.
Well, this is not a comparative study of the quality of music among the poor vagrants of India, saying that one should be prudent when giving to them, because economy is in recession. What I am saying is that unadulterated music is sadly missing in popular culture. People are willing to shell out thousands listen to folk music held at a five-star hotels. But it is not just music that is appreciated here, but the paraphernalia associated with such a elite gathering. Who said folk-music is dying? It is well and alive in streets.
