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Articles & Reviews

Bahar, Basant, Durga, Poorbis, etc.

Adagio, Allegro, G- moll, C-dur, etc.
Salman Ansari

Only after a few notes there it is - this feeling of touching roots, deep, archaic, beyond imagination and still familiar. Why is this music like stumbling and then finding support on grounds of a homeland and yet transcending into homelessness? Has this music to do with our genes, embedded in our DNA? Why does it not capture our feelings merely by virtue of musical structure, abstract, untranslatable, void of parable? Why does it not solely correspond to what Leibnitz said: �Music is an arithmetical exercise of the Soul, whereby the soul is not conscious that it is counting?� Why is it like inhaling the dark perfumes of the night, enticing fragrance of awakening daylight known to you since the day you were born in some corner of the Subcontinent? Why does it make you feel the air expanding, spreading all over the universe filled with the breath and aura of the dead, listening with you, accompanying you to domains otherwise inaccessible? Or is this anxiety for places of childhood where no one has ever been? Of course it can not be anything else.

There he is. Can you see him? This is my father. Look how he holds the pillow between his thighs, his body not fully stretched on the bed. See how he rests his head in his left hand supported by his arm, the elbow dug into the bed sheets. It is late at night and it is 1950. Do you notice how carefully he moves one of the knobs on the old radio with the thumb and only one finger of his right hand? The needle on the display moves millimetre by millimetre. Why is he doing this? Except echoes, distant and continued sounds of cracking, rattling like fired bullets, you don�t hear anything else. But then millimetre after millimetre they gradually fade away. Right at this moment he is moving the needle to some mysterious threshold and instantly the air in his room is filled with cosmic murmur and whispers. My father listens. Why is he doing this? No tune, no voice as yet. Perhaps he has moved the needle ultimately to the right place catching the air of his home town somewhere in India while he is breathing here in Lahore. Maybe he can listen to voices of his friends and colleagues or recognize the streets, gardens and corners of the beloved places acoustically. Maybe he can hear the wind passing through the corridors of the house where he saw my mother for the first time. He must have made some arrangements with his friends in India. Perhaps they also have been moving the needle of their radio simultaneously and cautiously until this specific cosmic sound of murmuring winds is tuned in connecting my father and his friends while all of them continue to hold the needle of their radio precisely in the correct position. This must be so. Do you see how my father has now moved his ear very close to the yellowish textile hiding the speakers in the wooden box of the radio? What is he listening to, what messages are passed on to him by all these celestial whispers interrupted now and then by sudden whistling tunes, Morse signals sent from somewhere passed on to my father and then out into the endless space? I cannot see my father�s face now but I know he understands all these signs; they automatically enter his brain and are encoded there into some strange meaning. Of course you would think that my father would remain now in this position forever holding the knob, his head inclined towards the radio. But this is not true. Now you can clearly see how incredibly slowly he continues to turn the radio knob making the needle creep from left to right. How has he learnt to master a movement as slow as this? My father must be concentrating breathlessly. Maybe he is heading for some other town or place of his childhood. Oh now! Now I can hear a voice, can you also? How can this happen? Whose voice is this? It was there for a second, maybe even less und now again. It sounds as if someone is shaken vigorously while trying to say something one cannot understand. You heard some fragments of a word and then it diminished abruptly. Now again this voice, clear enough to understand. �All India� it said and was immediately covered by celestial winds. But then my father touched the knob again and the voice came back. The voice is announcing something followed by a sound like waves breaking at far away seashore. I can see my father falling back into his bed with a clear sigh of gratitude. Did you also hear that sigh? Well listen now. He calls my mother. Come now he says. That is all. The radio voice is fairly clear now, is talking to my father and probably also to all his friends. All of them are on air. So from now on we will have to keep uttermost silence, we are very near to discover what my father is really up to. The man in the radio tells my father and his friends that a Raga (strange unheard name) sung by someone (hard to understand) will follow soon. It is surely amazing how my father could succeed in communicating simultaneously with his friends and convince the man in the radio to broadcast music he must have been longing for. Stand by me! You saw and heard it yourself. My father has now moved his pillow, his head is touching the pillow slightly, he is lying on his back and I can not see his eyes but I know he is expecting something to happen in a very short while. The part of his nightshirt covering his breast loosely is now moving up and down corresponding to some rhythm unknown to me. There is no sound audible except the beating of my heart. But then suddenly- it is almost frightening- a voice starts making sounds accompanied by strange string instruments and followed by another voice now shouting at the first voice. Or is it rather that both voices join together to sing if you can call it singing. Is this music? Can you understand my father? Of course you can�t. Almost two hours have already elapsed since this �music� took over my father�s room. Just a few moments ago beating drums have started to encourage the voices to shout even louder at each other. Meanwhile only once or twice I heard my father move in his bed, but nevertheless it is as if he was no more there and this frightens me. But fortunately now and then I hear him sigh.

The sound of this sigh is still in the air although since then years have passed and thousands of miles are still there between my father�s bedroom and where I sit now upright in my bed waiting for sleep to come. Sometimes when I long for my father in one of these warm and dark nights so rare here I slip out of my bed, go downstairs where I have access to the balcony. There I sit protected by the black cape of the night immersing my ear now into the west and then again into the east winds. I do this very cautiously as if I was moving the knob on my father�s radio almost as precisely as he did. And see now and then I can evaluate my father�s voice and hear him sigh.

There he is, my father, this is his bed, this is his pillow and this is his radio. Do you see all this? Of course you do. Do you think I could just enter his room and hug him? No, I know I could not do it. He is somewhere in a world inaccessible to me, maybe far away in India, inhabited by strange friends of my father. All of them listening to this music, sighing now and then exactly as my father. Filling the air in my room with all these sighs, frightening me, telling me there is no one there who cares for me. I close my eyes imagining myself lying on my father�s bed between him and my mother. But this imagination prevails only for a short while and is shattered by the scary sound of the two men gurgling faster and louder as if someone were pressing hard on their throat. The �music� goes on and on. Sometimes it fades away, but never totally and whenever this happens my father touches the knob and it comes back again. This has already happened repeatedly and I feel I am not be able to keep myself awake much longer.

In the very early morning hours I take care not to make any noise while opening the door to my father�s room, just a tiny bit. He is still asleep there beside my mother; his radio switched off. Of course no one would believe me if I told them what I saw and listened to night after night except you. Of course.

Months later I could hardly bear the thought that I may never be able to accompany my father on his nocturnal journeys sharing with him puzzling worlds like my mother so obviously did. This was the starting point when I began to think that my parents would not listen to this kind of �music� if it was not full of secrets still to be discovered and perhaps not totally out my reach.

I was still attending school and was planning a career as a pop singer, no not here. Here I could not see any grounds for my career. Hardly anyone knew what real music was like. Except one all my friends were humming all the time these Indian film songs, so false, sublimating sexual fantasies in absurd rhymes. No I knew this was not the right place for me. I was thinking of England or America. For the time being it was not really important to me where I eventually shoot up like a star however, now and then I felt that I would very well turn down offers from United States once they started coming in and surely one day they will start pouring in. Well all this could wait. I was practicing hard and had composed a few songs. I presented them to my friend. Although I had no guitar I was still holding it in the right professional style while my friend listened to my songs. Very often my friend disappeared in a sea of a huge crowd clapping frenetically while I sang.

It was then that something unexpected happened to me. I came home late. My father was away on business for a couple of days. It was a very warm night. There was no one in the house. The beds had been moved out of the house in to the garden and the hot air in the rooms felt like a membrane filled with steam giving way only to heat. I could hear distant voices. They came filtered to me, hollow and broken. I had no idea why I was walking through the empty rooms, absentminded, like a stray animal. Suddenly I was in my father�s room: Here his bed, here his pillow, his night shirt, here his table, here his radio, everything in its right place. I took few steps towards his bed and finally sat down on it looking straight at his radio. Somehow I was drawn to the radio or shall I say tempted by it? I had never touched his radio and I knew exactly that under no circumstances I would ever touch the knob controlling the needle. I would leave it in its place where my father had moved it so elaborately with uttermost patience. But how could I alter its position if I just switched the radio on? No, I knew this could not happen. I hesitated for a couple of seconds, looked at the door leading to my fathers room, now partly open, made sure there were no steps approaching and then very quickly pressed the button and the radio reacted immediately. I could see a green light behind the display. For seconds I did not hear anything, maybe the radio needed time to warm up in this unbearable heat. But after many very long seconds my father�s music started streaming out of the radio. So clearly and nearby perfectly undisturbed by sounds of fired bullets or whistling winds. I sat there sweating, unable to switch the radio off. Now and then the music faded away and I sat there hoping it would come back and it always came back. I cannot say that I liked the music. But after it had passed for more than an hour, or even longer, through some channels of my brain, had entered into layers of my consciousness evoking metaphysical dimensions, I felt I was carried away by some strange force. I was again and again overwhelmed by totally new feelings. It was as if someone were pouring a very fine stream of chilled water right along my neck, and the water rolling slowly all the way down on my back giving me shivers in this suffocating heat saturated night.

During this night a new microcosm was installed within me. But where was this universe located? Maybe exactly there where my soul had its due place. But where was the due place of the soul? The soul is not an organ, as it left you when you died. So it needed a place in the organism to manifest itself. Perhaps the new universe was sitting now somewhere in my heart? But then everybody had a heart and not every heart started beating in resonance with my father�s music. But perhaps I was wrong altogether. It could very well be also true that in everyone�s heart the soul sat integrated in millions of unique manifestations waiting to learn how to count unconsciously. Whatever. I, on my part was not sure and started studying very carefully the structure of all organs in my body. I felt that none of them could possibly be appropriate to accommodate the universe I was now feeling strongly in me except perhaps the spinal cord. This satisfied me for the time being and I wondered if my father knew more about places and islands within you, locations for hundreds of microcosms not yet known to me.

III

My father returned home. I took special care to be near him whenever it was possible. I thought he would surely be the first person to discover what I was hiding so preciously. After a few days I gave up. It became apparent to me that I had failed to make him look at me in a way I thought he had to look in order to feel the novel micro cosmos in me. It made me almost sick to think that I should have to give up this strong idea of my father inviting me one of these days to join him listening to All India Radio, asking me to make myself comfortable between him and my mother on his bed. There was so much room there for me!

Here are six beds in this huge room. Five of them are empty. Some bed sheets are hanging loosely down, touching the floor, telling you that they were probably abandoned in haste. It is early in the morning. Someone is there in the dining room. I hear the sound of a spoon scraping over china; I hear a metallic tune of something falling to the floor, probably a fork or a knife. I inhale the strong smell of porridge and boiled milk slightly diluted by the sweet odour of toasted bread diffusing now into the bedroom, spreading freely, driving out smells of sweat and indefinable body odours secreted during the night. I hear the door leading to the garden falling noisily into its frame; I hear hasty steps towards the garden fence, the clattering of a bicycle followed by the ringing of the bell, just two or three strokes muffled, fading away quickly. Now I hear the gravel pushed backward by rolling wheels. I know that my sister is now well underway. She takes her bike to cycle to her school.

I see my younger brother asleep on one of the six beds. He has rolled his body, his knees are almost touching his belly and his arms are crossed over his forehead. My mother is still in her room. Soon she will find out that my brother has decided not to attend school. He must have been shaken by my other brothers and sisters again and again in a vain effort to wake him up. The sun is already flooding the bedroom; the two chameleons absolutely motionless are glued to the wall high up near the ceiling. Now and then I hear buzzing of flies. They fly in and out again. I hear the cook talking to the cat. I am familiar with the very characteristic shades of his voice when he talks to the cat, probably sitting in front of the kitchen waiting for her morning meal. I hear the cook open the door and then again come out of the kitchen, and now his voice starts singing abstract words forming sounds of affection; they seem to hug and kiss the cat simultaneously. I hear the cat talking to him, and again and again I hear the sound of a spoon scarping the earthen bowl emptying leftovers from some lunch or dinner. I hear water splashing, once or twice the gardener coughs. I smell evaporated droplets carrying the smell of Eucalyptus to my nose. Far away I hear the high pitched cries of the buzzard followed by the chattering of the parrots and stentorian calls of the crows. I see my brother dressed in his grey shirt and khaki trouser. He prefers not to change for the night. My mother does not like it when we mention this. Now I hear the voice of the lady who has come to clean the house and to make the beds. I hear her ask the gardener if my mother is up. She enters the bedroom and soon realizes that one bed is still occupied. She knocks on my mother�s door. I hear my mother asking her to come in. She complains that she cannot clean the bedroom. I hear my mother telling her to clean first the other rooms.

Here is my brother, here is his bed, and here are his shoes and here his socks. Is he really asleep? Why is his body not relaxed? Why is he not in the school? No one would think of doing him any harm there. My brother is an excellent student. Maybe he is just tired or even breeding some disease. But then this is already the third day since he started missing his classes. My mother is ready now. She enters the bedroom with six beds, hastily looks at my brother still motionless in his bed and enters the dinning room. She asks the cook to bring the tea and then she calls my brother to come and join her. �Come my child, come!� My brother is up immediately. My brother is now drinking tea with my mother. My brother is still a child and children are not allowed to drink tea. I do not hear them talk. But I hear my mother planning the daily meals together with the cook.

Now my brother is back again in the bedroom. He is sitting upright in the middle of his bed, legs crossed. He has lifted his arm as if he were supporting something resting on his shoulder. He has started moving the fingers of his right hand gliding elegantly over an invisible object up and down and than again fingers vibrating, trembling and pressing on something delicately whereas the fingers of the other hand keep on stroking something or is it rather like pulling some invisible strings?.

Every evening my brother visits his friend. Here is my brother, here is his friend, and here is the house of his friend. Here is the Sitar and here the professional musician teaching his friend to play the Sitar. My brother is watching her practice with uttermost concentration, he is memorising all what the teacher remarks. The music comes to him quite obviously. My brother is wondering why girls are allowed to learn to play music instruments, boys not. Maybe only girls are predestined to become refined and sophisticated by musical education? Or is it a part of their dowry?

A few days ago I had heard my father arguing with my younger brother. I see and hear them now. Here is my father, here is my brother. My father is looking at my brother with distinct concern in his eyes. My brother has just asked my father to buy him a Sitar. My father is arguing. Is he trying to convince my younger brother? I do not hear all what he says. My father is alarmed that my brother might choose music as his profession. My brother can not follow whatever my father is bringing forward. My brother now knows that my father will not buy him a Sitar.

I am far away from home. It is early in the morning. J. is already up. He has made his bed. I am sharing his room. Here is Js bed, here are his slippers, and here is his pyjama and the nightgown. Here is his violin cassette; here are his booklets with notes. I hear him move a chair in the kitchen. I hear water running out of the tap. I hear water filling a metallic pot. I hear again a chair moved on the stone covered floor. I hear the sound of pages being turned over. I hear J. humming. For seconds I hear agitated steam passing through a narrow passage followed by immediate whistling alarm. I hear chairs pushed hastily aside. And very soon I smell the strong aroma of coffee tempting me to get up and join J. However, for the time being I prefer to stay in my bed. I hear Js mother. She says she is ready now. I hear J. open the door of his room softly, picking up his violin and the metronome hastily. He has now left his room closing the door again behind him. I hear J. tuning his violin, his mother pressing the keys of the piano. Now I hear J. clearing his throat as if getting ready to sing. There is silence for a couple of seconds. Perfectly smooth the first touch of the bow on the strings. The piano partaking like answering and questioning and then, again, accompanying passionately the singing strings or is it responding to Js. inner singing? The air molecules all around me begin to translate, swing and rotate in resonance with tunes so melancholic that I begin to long for a place on my father�s bed exactly between my mother and him. But how do these molecules now look like? Maybe they are sublimely round holding heavens of anxiety. Maybe I feel them to be round because they enter the microcosms I brought with me from home now so obviously and make me shiver while I lie in this soft and warm bed.

I hear J. stop playing now and then, the piano abruptly breaking into silence. I hear J. exchanging a few words with his mother and then they go on and on for hours. Since many days J. is practicing the Andante of the Sonata in F by Mozart. I listen to it day after day and numerous times each day. I already know all the notes of it by heart. But with every preceding day the aura of the melodies comes to me like known odours enriched slightly by some new mysterious component, the same notes making the air vibrate differently from day to day. But perhaps all this exists only in my imagination? After all, the notes are written there, key, time and tempi given. I believe J. and his mother study the notes first and as they read their brain processes those to acoustic signals releasing immediate streams of emotions making their heart beat accordingly. Every heartbeat is definite passing away for ever and thus the sound of one and of the same note consequently presents itself to me in changing colours. Every fermata and legato in accord with the respective breathing rhythm of the interpreters. Or perhaps it is me, the passive recipient, who learns to differentiate with every following day? But then what do I know about all these things?!

My father writes to me: �I have to discipline myself otherwise I will go on listening to this music constantly�. I am holding this letter in my hand and reading it now and I will read it again later. The letter arrived a few days ago. The day I received it my father was no more there. Here is my father; here is his Gramophone, here the small metallic box containing the needles, here the records, here the yellow piece of textile to wipe off the dust. I see my father looking at the cover of the record I sent to him. He is studying the letters on it. The German title on the cover remains meaningless to him. He knows that the record holds music composed by Richard Strauss. My father is now listening to Richard Strauss songs. He is listening to songs called the �Last four songs�, unable to understand poems sung in German. He listens to them every evening. Especially one song he listens to repeatedly; this the last piece of music my father heard:

At Sunset

Through joy and sorrow we have

walked hand and hand;

We are resting from our wandering

now above the quiet countryside.

Around us the valleys slope away;

already the air is growing dark,

only two larks are left climbing

into the haze, dreaming of the night.

Come near and let them flutter;

soon it will be time to sleep,

lest we loose our way

in this solitude.

O broad, still peace.

So deep in the sunset,

how tired of wandering we are-

could this perhaps be death?
-Joseph Von Eichendorff

(Prof. Dr. Salman Ansari, is a founding director of Virsa and Rauf Ansari Foundation. He is
an author, short story writer and a teacher.
He has been living in Germany since 1958)