An urban minstrel

The light of thy music illumines the world...

The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on.

Ah, thou has made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music...

"" Rabindranath Tagore,
Gitanjali

Every morning, in the scurry that is my daily commute, I swing into a second-class compartment and ferociously battle elbows, briefcases and abuses in order to secure the two inches of standing space that is to be all the playground I have for the next hour.

At this point I would normally pull out my reading material or stare listlessly at nothing in particular, hoping the 10 stations would pass with unusual swiftness. That it never happens is no reason to lose hope. It's all very routine and some might even go so far as to call it my morning ritual.

It was on one such routine morning where, after I was done with the obligatory swinging, elbowing and space-securing that my ears suddenly picked up a curious noise emanating from somewhere close by.

The thought of investigating came upon me as quickly as a stamped foot evokes an "ouch" (a peril that I was continuously dealing with at the time "" crowded train and all) I knew the direction the music was coming from but with the crowd getting thicker, I couldn't get more than two feet beyond where I was standing.

I had only my ears to rely on and to them it was obvious that it was no more than a single-stringed instrument. But played with such mastery that it was impossible to ignore. To my little Indian musical knowledge, a sarangi was the closest that I could come to defining this instrument.

Over the next half-hour, this sarangi-like instrument and its master entranced me like no one before. Being a frequent traveller on the local lines, I have often had the pleasure (often displeasure) of hearing numerous Bollywood re-renditions from children and miscellaneous musicians who had nothing more than a flute or a harmonium to carry a tune and carve a living from it.

I have even seen a man play Christmas carols on a harmonica. But this was by far the most beautiful thing that I had ever heard. With each passing station I grew more and more involved in this music to the point where the din of the running train and all the chaos around me became completely irrelevant.

In less than an hour the music that came to me unseen plunged through the depths and highs of everything around it, transforming the most unruly of rush hour madness into something of little relevance. At last the crowd dissolved and I was finally allowed a glance.

What I saw was a simple sight but a sight to behold nonetheless. The instrument turned out to be a large bow, about waist-high, with a single string and played with a tiny bow. But it was the player who was the most fascinating of all.

The people around seemed not to exist to him; he stood and played as if it were a duty. His eyes were not closed, but still he looked at no one. His simplicity was beatific and he played endlessly with one finger gently caressing the string of the instrument. When his station came (unfortunately before mine) he gently picked up his instrument and walked out of the compartment.

I am not sure if he was playing for money. I did not give him any out of respect. His disposition seemed to say that he was not asking for anything and did not want anything. His music seemed to be all he needed and he had that right here. Was he a travelling musician who saw it as his life's work to spread a message through his music?

Or did he travel the trains everyday playing for his daily wage? I still don't know. Romantic that I am, I like to think it was the former. Curiosity lead me to find out more about the instrument. I learnt that it is a Rajasthani instrument called a ravanhatha and was a precursor to the violin which originated in Spain in the 11th century.

I have never seen the instrument since but I do hope to come across it again, possibly in the hands of the master who introduced me to it. Talk about starting the day on a high note!