Peregrinations
Land of magic . . .
(This is the concluding segment of the article, the first two parts of which appeared in the past fortnight) But this is only half our musical and song tradition, and the other half is represented by Nazrul Islam. Obviously the themes of the Jari and Ghazi played a very important role in the life of this poet, who started life as a minstrel and a village bard, taking part in dramatic performances, including extempore versification in competition with more mature and experienced men. But the heroic poetry of Nazrul or his reputation as the Rebel is at best only incidental to his predominant strain --- preoccupation with the human soul in the toils of life, its day-to-day joys and sorrows. There is no unique strain in this, no ploughing of the lonely furrow. He sings the same strain that has been sung through the centuries by his ordinary fellow humans. An example of this transmutation of the uncut gems in folk tradition into polished jewels which Nazrul effected has been given by Abbasuddin Ahmad, the pioneer exponent of folk songs as well as Nazrul geet. From the Bhawaiya song --- Nadir naam shai, Kachua
Machh mare machhua (The river's name is Kachua, and there the fisherman fishes) came Nazrul's classic --- Nadir naam shai, Anjana
Nache teere Khanjana
Pakhi nai to nache kalo ankhi … (The river is called Anjana and on its banks dances the khanjana bird. It is not the bird that dances but the dark eyes of a maiden). There is no extra effort. Even the tune is the same. Yet what was a child's prattling has become a thing of beauty. Note the subtle associations in the very names. The river is no longer a meaningless Kachua, but Anjana, the kohl in the eyes of a maiden. The khanjana is about the sleekest of birds and a stock simile for a lissom lass. At one stroke a beautiful word-picture is drawn of the Bengal countryside and its power of evoking love and worship among the very young at heart. Nazrul did not have to go far for his material. He lived and breathed in an atmosphere steeped in romance and longing. Let us take the Ghatu songs. What is their typical theme? A young girl, still puzzled and thrilled with the awakening of her youth, goes to the bathing ghat and meets a boy. The magic works and she confides the tumult in her heart to her companions and then follows the tender workings of first love. What is their typical refrain …? "O! my friend, whence comes the music of my love's flute?" The bathing ghat is to the village lovers what the bower and the balcony were in medieval Europe. The classic love story of Radha and Krishna also was enacted on the ghats of the Jamuna. From such material come the words of a typical folk song ---- "That beauty I keep locked up in my heart. My friend, that sudden beauty on the banks of the Jamuna. I had gone to fetch water, but when I saw him my pitcher floated on the waters while I feasted my eyes on that beauty." The love between man and woman, the heavy stresses it imposes on the heart, the way it colours every manifestation of nature, all are found in riotous abundance in the big genre called Baro Mashya. This runs right from early times to the present day. The main theme is the wailing of the woman about to be separated from her man, who is going abroad on business. She tries all the wiles and persuasions and subterfuges known to her sex to prevent his going or effecting his speedy return. Incidentally, in the old songs we get a glimpse of the brisk sea trade which was carried out by our people in those days of the sailboat and the galleon, the reckless spirit of adventure that led them from home and their beloved to distant and unknown lands. But we digress again and must return to the yearning and the sorrow of the woman about to be parted from her lover --- "The pain of youth is a great agony. I cannot bear it. I would rather shed my youth and drown myself in the water. O, my beloved merchant, cut the bamboo from the grove and fashion your boat or raft with it, but please do not go sailing in that craft. Let your uncle go to distant lands for commerce and business. I will give your bodyguards bright red turbans. I will bribe your boatmen with gold so that they too may take my side and prevent you from sailing away. This youth of mine is a thing of sorrow and conspires against my life." If she cannot tie him down with her ample charms, then she will pawn her last belongings to make him stay a while longer --- "I will sell my household utensils, the mat on the floor of my hut, the bracelets on my arms and give it to your sailors. Only please stay with me for a few months." In these songs we find that in spite of our general modesty and flair for speaking in riddles and symbols, when we are in love we do not suffer from understatement or reticence. And this is as it should be in unsophisticated and simple people. A few more examples of such frank testaments of love and we must end for want of space --- "O my lover, the lord of my heart, I cannot live any more for I burn in the flames of my youth. When the moon is not in the sky, what can its poor consort, the star, do? A woman who does not have her man, what avails beauty? When the spring comes to the river, it breaks its banks with the fury of its passion. When the fish catches the spring fever, it rushes up and down the stream. Spring gives the man his seducing flute; to a woman the season of love lends a bewitching smile." Such is the magic of love that it weaves man, nature and the animal kingdom with the same bright thread of longing and expectation. It is a time not for a careful husbanding of resources, but of extravagant giving; not a season of fear or doubt, but of high adventure. A domestic scene of love should just about complete this sketchy picture. Woman:
My friend, please let me go home for once to see my loving parents. I promise not to tarry. Man:
I know well your stratagem, my girl. Once I let you go, there will have to be the endless entreaties and I will have to go down on my knees to make you return. Woman:
I promise you, if you let me go this time, my mother herself will escort me back to your house. Man:
What you suggest is not bad, but truth to tell, my love, when the endless rains make music all around, how can I stay all alone in my dreary house without you? Woman:
Fie on you, my friend! How can you talk like this? What is your heart made of? I want to drown myself, with the noose around my neck, of shame and humiliation, when you talk thus. Man:
My girl, God forbid that you should die after stealing my heart. You be the river and I will drown myself in it. So runs the endless tale of the subtle nuances of love, the undertone of longing and passion…This then is the magic that surrounds the entire land and that is why lovers and all sensitive souls marvel at the mystery that envelops the people of Bengal and seems to pervade the entire landscape. That is why till the end of time our home will be known as the Land of Magic, where the most wondrous sights and strange happenings are seen in a proper setting of mystery, where the shepherd and the village maiden will weave their immortal love stories, without putting any undue strain on credulity, where because of the inherent magic, the suspension of disbelief will always come more naturally than elsewhere.
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