It is ironic that the week in which the sound of one hand slapping rocked the country happened to be the week which celebrates Musician’s Day.
St Cecilia a second century Roman noblewoman, who was canonised for her devotion to God, became the patron saint of musicians because it is said she sang to God even while she was being beheaded. Her feast which falls on 22 November is celebrated with music recitals, performances and events the world over.
And throughout, by some strange coincidence — though these things never are —, music parenthesised my week, seeped through it and imbued it with its profound presence. It began with an evening of Sufi music in Delhi in the spectacular setting of the Purana Qila with a Zikr-e-Rifayi performed by the majestic fakirs from Andhra Pradesh, followed by the plaintive songs of Hafiza Begum Choudhury and her troupe from Assam, the wit of Muhtiyar Ali as he brought Kabiriana to life, the incredibly delicate Baul songs by the enigmatic Partvathy Baul the almost ethereal Sema whirling dervishes of Turkey and then reached its crescendo with the earthy sufi qawwalis by Fareed Ayaz and his group of swashbuckling men from Pakistan.
If that was not enough music to edify my soul, a few days later, I had the opportunity of watching Imtiaz Ali’s paean to musicians, Rockstar, in which the innocence, the angst, the unparalleled joy and the sorrow of a troubadour was so sensitively depicted by Ranbir Kapoor. With Kashmir and Prague’s beauty as backdrop, A R Rahman’s music was soul stirring.
Through his film Ali conveyed the agony and ecstasy of those who have dedicated their life to music and the price it extracts from them. But as if that was not enough to fill my music cups, the next day I was treated to a magical evening of devotional songs in the presence of Swami Chidanand Saraswatiji, the president of the Parmath Niketan Ashram in Rishikesh. As he sang and spoke of divinity, soul searching and happiness, he led us in to a meadow of profound silence of peace and hope. As I sat and sang along with the rest of the audience it occurred to me that the word satsang meant exactly that and its effect was always so uplifting.
You would think that would be enough music to last a lifetime, but no, that evening I was privileged to hear the Grammy-winning cutting edge soul and blues performance artist Imogen Heap at the Blue Frog, an experience that left the audience shaken and stirred.
Musician Vishal Dadlani, who accompanied her in the finale, spoke for the audience when he said to Heap: “ You have made me cry twice tonight!” The unbearable beauty of Heap’s almost celestial songs, her creation of sound waves through the movements of her digitally empowered gloves, and her playing of her transparent plexi-glass grand piano was an experience few would forget.
I have been fortunate to have grown up amidst music and musicians, and have observed that rarely have I witnessed negativity or pettiness, when they are immersed in music. Mostly, all jealousy, violence, anger and bitterness has been sublimated and joy and lightness has prevailed.
Which is why in the week in which a resounding slap was heard across the nation, I was grateful that I also heard some exquisite music. Aptly, it sounded like the stereophonic music of life.
Malavika Sangghvi is a Mumbai-based writer
