The Castle of Music

Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur is not just an imposing stone structure, with carved facades and exquisite filigree work, well-maintained museums, a bevy of heavy canons, and a continuous stream of foreign tourists. It’s also about music and nostalgia. In fact, during my recent visit, I found a lot of musical elements have been added to it lately.

At the first turn after the ticket booth, you will now find a young Rajasthani lad playing Ravanhattha (a simple string instrument looking like Sarangi). Nothing new, you would say, such amateurs are seen tenner-a-dozen all over Jodhpur. But what makes him unique is the patronage of a young security guard. As I slowed down to hear the Sarangi player, the guard started narrating in his hard-to-follow English the grand heritage of Jodhpur, its musical tradition and why I should part some money with him and the musician. Finding me unfazed, he joined the musician and started singing a Rajasthani song at the top of his voice. While I was impressed by the thought that they had mistaken me to be a foreigner, the vocal torture drove me away. I have heard the story of late Ustad Fayyaz Khan once taking up the challenge of singing all the seven notes wrong. These two didn’t need any wager in doing that.

Another pair of new musicians I found near the souvenir shops…a young boy playing Ravanhattha and his 14-year old sister singing a Rajasthani folk song. The boy’s chapakan needed mending and an immediate wash, while the girl’s Salwar-Kurta must have come from Nai Sarak flea market. About the music, lesser said the better.

Another interesting pair positioned themselves near the Kali Mata temple at the annexe. As the narrow stone alley neared the temple, I saw a lady in her sixties singing, “Darshan de mata sherawali…” Though it was a temple dedicated to Goddess Kali, but in northern India Sherwali Mata always attracts more alms. However, in this case, people’s interest (mainly of men), was going more towards the young lady who was lying on the ground nearby, sometimes offering falsetto to the senior singer’s tune. Her yellow Saree was tucked near the knees, and her breasts were popping out of the blouse. As I reached nearby, the elderly lady suddenly stopped singing, and hissed, “Chiri.” The young lady bolted up and ran behind the nearby wall, her saree trailing behind. A prospect must have arrived.

While leaving the fort, I stopped at the Loha Pol. I like this place. Immediately to the left are the handprints (sati marks) of the queens who in 1843 immolated themselves on the funeral pyre of their husband, Maharaja Man Singh. In a small recess beside the gate sat Amar, Birj and Sultan, who play the Sarangi, Algoza and Nagara respectively. They smiled at me (the last time I met them was two years ago), and said, “Kaise ho sahab? Ohi bajaun? (How are you, sir? Should we play the same tune?)” I nodded and sat on the opposite side of the lane, lent on the red stone, spread my weary legs and closed my eyes. The trio started giving their rendition of raga Darbari.

In dream, I went back to a cool December afternoon two years ago.

The Man under the Sky

You come down from the Mehrangarh fort, follow the main road, leave the Girls Secondary School at your left, reach the crossing and turn left. You are at the outskirts of the Jodhpur city. This road will go to Mandore Gardens, but that is still four kilometres away. Instead of waiting for the bus or a tempo, you decide to keep walking. And soon at the left you see an island of workers - men, women and children – their heads bent, weaving the brooms, containers and dividers made of bamboo sticks.

There are about 30 people working, and the elders would tell you they belong to one family – an extended family. You see the nimble fingers of the 8-10 year olds moving fast in stitching the bamboo partitions, creating exquisite patterns. You ask their names, and take pictures so that you can claim later that you met some ‘child labourers’. The children would happily pose for you.

Go forward a few steps, and you will find a young Rajasthani belle, wearing a red Salwar-Kurta, a veil covering her head and face, weaving a large broom. While her left hand is holding the broomstick, her right hand is moving in clockwise fashion to neatly pack fallen twigs, and tie them together. You haven’t seen her face but you can feel that she is young, very young. A rugged, old man standing at your left says, “Aasma. She is Aasma. Take her picture.” You kneel down on the road, focus your camera on her face, and pray to God, “Let the veil go off for a while.”

And it does. Three kids surround her, hold her neck, rest on her back, and in the commotion her veil indeed goes off. You feel she must be under 20. The old man mutters, as if to himself, “Her children.” An adolescent mother! But then you are busy clicking the photos. Aasma doesn’t stop her work. You stand up, switch your digital camera to ‘Display’ mode and show her the photo on the LCD screen. Still working on the broom, she sees it, and then, for a fleeting moment, casts a sharp, witty glance at you. As if to thank you.

You turn to go, ignoring the old ladies who are yelling, “Our photo, saab, our photo.”

You look at the thin, bearded man, who must be well over his sixties, and ask, “You also work here?”

“No, I don’t work. She does. Aasma is my wife,” he says proudly.