The piper’s solace

On most evenings at our colony, we experienced an hour-long power cut. Like other city children in those days, we considered it a break rather than a hazard. We siblings, along with our parents and grandma, would sit on our big bed or on the floor of our wide inner balcony to talk and share our experiences of the day. Sometimes our elders would entertain us with interesting stories; sometimes my elder sisters would sing new songs which they had learnt from their music teacher that weekend.

Grandma mostly told us her childhood memories. The most interesting thing about her storytelling was that it was always in the present tense. But we enjoyed it anyway. She also told us stories from her little collection of storybooks. One such summer evening, I was lying down with grandma on the sheetol paati that was spread on our big bed. The sheetol paati was laid out on a bed or the floor to keep them cool in the summer. Other members of my family were sitting on the balcony and talking.

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We all longed for it to rain. It was too hot. Grandma kept fanning me with her haatpakha and began preparing to open Thakurmar Jhuli (it was indeed a jhuli full of repeated stories) on request. Then a tune reached my ears, breaking the sultry darkness. It seemed to come from the other side of the wall, which separated our colony from a series of go-downs.

Someone was playing the bamboo flute. The melodious tune that emanated from the flute seemed so natural and lyrical. Even Grandma stopped fanning for some time and started to listen in silence. The flute threw off soft, sweet notes with a melancholy tune all over the place. I laid there, speechless, without any motion. The piper was playing with the tunes so effortlessly, pouring out all his emotions. It touched my little mind so deeply that I can still recall every detail of it.

Only a heart full of pain can play like that.

Each note floated in the air, as if to reach the passionate listener to share the story of his life. The life that he had left behind in a faraway village that was green and beautiful. There, he had a loving family, a group of caring and playful friends, or someone special. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine him running through the fields with a big bright kite with paper patches glued on to the torn parts, playing danguli with his dear friends, crossing the river, and sharing steaming hot rice with his siblings. In sickness and in happiness, his parents were his sanctuary.

On stormy nights, he perhaps filled up baskets with mangoes, the ones that came undone because of the storm, and it brought him incomparable joy. On bright sunny mornings, he might have sat on the edge of the canal with a makeshift fishing pole and it did the same.

All these vibrant memories were so fondly cherished in his heart. Each season in the village served him with its offering. Kobi gaan, paala gaan, nouka baich, and melas must have filled his young heart with the joy of belonging. It all moulded his life into a simple yet content one. Giving up these entities he was fond of, he left for the unseen and unknown to earn a living.

After a hard day at work, leaning against the concrete wall, he picked up his only precious possession – his flute, his solace. He tried to make peace with his city life in vain. He played it not to beg for those he longed for, but to impart to the listener the pain and emptiness he felt. When it ended, it was hard to get over that heart-touching, melancholic tune. The next morning, though I knew that it was sheer foolishness, I stood on the balcony looking for my bashiwala.

Monica Margaret Gomes is an English literature and language teacher.