MUSIC STRIKES BACK

Wars can never bring any good for any country, it's people and their art among them. 

In August 1971, Narayanganj, Situated on the outskirts of Dhaka, a place small enough to be missed easily on the map but still managed to engrave itself in the history of Bangladesh, erstwhile Pakistan. It got its present name after the battle of Plassey when a religious leader leased this town from East India Company and endowed it in turn for the service of God ( Narayan). 

It was the first half of 71’, the place was rife with atrocities of the Pakistan army. Hindus, hunted from village to village and door to door, shot off-hand after a cursory 'short-arm inspection' showed they were uncircumcised. Millions were killed and millions raped, spreading terror. Bengali Hindus were treated like scum and vermin, better exterminated.

It was December 4th, 1971. Bikon lal Pandey rushing through the bazaar heard the azan of ‘dhuhr’ and hurried his pace. Shops lined on either side of the alleyway were selling everything from flowers to books. The air was heavy with the fragrance of incense emanating from different shops and getting mixed up.

To add to the already challenged olfaction, there were few sweet shops dunking freshly fried ‘Jalebis’ in the sugar syrup which were irresistibly beckoning. But all this and many more temptations couldn't slacken Bikons pace 'today'. he was a man with a purpose and destination.

He was born and brought up in a Brahmin Hindu family and had modest raising.His father was head clerk in a jute mill and earned just enough to make the things rolling, sometimes comfortably and sometimes not. His father being himself fond of listening to semiclassical and classical music. as a result, Bikon was exposed to music pretty early in his life. As he grew up, he started singing and dedicated ajan and classical vocal singing for which his father never discouraged His father had realized that music was the only thing that helped him overcome his difficult and melancholic days when his wife passed away at a very young age of 30 during childbirth. He was young and vernal and Bikon were small. Music was his only companion in the long forlorn evenings.

 Even as a child Bikon was good enough and earned a reputation of a prodigal singer in the neighborhood and raising hopes in his near and dear ones for his becoming an eminent singer one day. As Bikon reached 16, on his persistent insistence and perpetual effort to be on his father’s good books, his father arranged for tuition from a Local Guru. Bikon was a fast learner and soaked whatever his guru had for him. In a couple of years, he was as good as his teacher if not more. he was married at the age of 18 and in the next 3 years fathered 2 children. 

A growing family had growing needs and it was difficult times in this part of the world ofof world. Art and music generally take a back seat in these kinds of times. Not having trained for anything other than music, he tried for a job at places as discordant as mills and post office, and work as ill-suited as a clerk and janitor. But these were hard times not just for himself but for society as a whole. Jobs were difficult to come by and easy to lose. The hostilities and the ensuing carnage were widespread and Hindus were being expunged from erstwhile East Pakistan. They either flee or were being killed at a meteoric pace.

Notwithstanding, Bikon was summoned by a rich businessman from Dhaka, Mujeebur Rehman, on his father's behest, to see him in his office for the prospect of engaging him as a music teacher for his daughter. He was told, it would be a well-waged job, and moreover, he would have an opportunity to meet great masters of music and learn from them. He fretted as he was running late and so hurried his steps.

He bowed. "Salam walekum"

“Walekum Salam”.

“Sahib, I am Bikon. Bikon lal.you must have met my father the other day in your office and he told me that you wished to see me”.

“Oh.yes.why don't u sit down.tea.?water?”.

“No thanks.i was being told u required a music teacher for your daughter”.

"Yes.will you be able to do this?.have you taught anywhere else?”

“Yes, sir. I had been teaching in the school for a few months but had to leave because of non-payment.”

“Yeah, I understand (though Bikon thought, he didn't). These are tough times, both for employer and employee.”

“So will you be able to move to Dhaka?”

“Yes sure. But as you can see I have a family and will have to earn two places.?”

“Never mind about that. It would 100 rupees for a month and stay is on me. Plus four paid days off in a month for you to see your family.”

Bikon couldn't speak further as his heart went aflutter. Though deep inside he thought he deserved this and more perhaps, but in the last two years his confidence and self-esteem had ebbed.

It wasn't necessary at all for him to say yes as his face and gesture had already done so. 

“So you can come on Monday, the 6th of December. My accountant here will work things out for you.”

 He strutted past the market, ignoring the shops and their enticements once more.

 That evening the family huddled in ‘baithak’ after dinner, his father in a lounge chair with hookah and wife with a ‘purdah’ standing beside him. They were listening to bhajans on the radio as their routine when abruptly the radio blurted ,

 unapologetically and clearly the newsreader spoke that "Pakistan has preemptively struck Indian airbases, precisely eleven in number in the afternoon and that This has caused an already tense situation across the border to escalate." 

It cast a spell of trepidation in the air and inhabitants of this room.

Not foreseeing the far-reaching implications of this, Bikon’s wife cursed the war in general and carried on with her chores. His father, with more worldly experience, thought of this as grave and far-reaching. Bikon, though, gleeful with his new appointment, didn't allow this small piece of news to unhinge him. He slept very peacefully that night..

The next morning while sauntering in a nearby market, he could sense some heaviness in the atmosphere. The usual affability and bonhomie of the dwellers seemed a thing of the past. Though he couldn't understand, yet perceived this as something sinister. He hurried off to his house and spent the day arranging and sorting things of his need for his departure.

Over dinner, his father came to him and told hesitantly about the possibility of an impending war. India had retaliated by foraying into Pakistan and reaching as far as 300 km inside the LOC. He urged Bikon to postpone his program for leaving for Dhaka.

Bikon was obviously distraught. After such a long wait he was hopeful of earning some decent money, and more than that some self-respect. He was buoyant for doing what he loved the most. And this all seemed to vaporize. He loathed the war. Still hopeful,he continued packing, though without the enthusiasm he had, hitherto. That night he couldn't sleep.

The next morning he woke up with commotion on the street,and crawled out of his bed and trudged to the window, to find people from across the street huddled up in small groups and jabbering away. there he saw one long-bearded and skull capped maulana having an agitated conversation with his father on the porch. He has never seen his father look so animated. After the Maulana had left his father barged in, agitated , and quivered visibly while telling them to be ready and gather all the valuables and possessions which they can in as little luggage as possible and be ready for a long journey, in as small a time as possible. Bikon was indecisively frozen and took a few moments to gather the situation, some from his father's broken and agitated words and some by the turn of events in the last few hours. India had engaged herself in a full-throttled war on Pakistan. As retaliation, Hindu Bengalis were being targeted countrywide by rioters and Pak army. Their family has been living in this locality for thirty years, and whatever belonged to them was in this house. The Maulana had been gracious enough, ,to ask them to pack whatever valuable was there and leave their house immediately. He expressed his inability to hold the mob, for long, if they come, and prevent the dreaded outcomes of plundering.

It is really very painstakingly difficult to gather your life in just one suitcase, and that too in a matter of a few minutes.. He wanted to cry loud but felt ashamed to do so. Yet his eyes went wet, which he didn't attempt to hide . and came back to his room.

Bikon looked around ,with wet eyes, and felt there was hardly anything unimportant to leave behind. He roved his eyes from alarm clock to radio, to his clothes hanging on the peg, to his harmonium. He was shattered. There wasn't a thing which unworthy enough to be left behind. and yet he had few minutes to choose what all he thinks are precious enough to be carried. He gathered himself, with an aching heart, and opened his already packed suitcase to repack, for a different purpose, for a different destiny.

They sneaked out of their own house, like thieves, in the wee hours of the morning. Bikon with a suitcase in his right hand and harmonium hanging on the left shoulder, his wife with two kids tucked on her either sides and his father with a good-sized carry bag containing some important documents, few edibles and whatever little cash and jewelry they had as valuables.

They were quite looking like refugees already. The Maulana, more out of a sense of responsibility than friendship, escorted them till the end of the alley and then left them on their own. It was a gesture of camaraderie as unfathomed as can be, for which Bikon's father felt grateful. They were lucky to be given a chance to escape and flew. Bikon realized his father had earned quite a lot over time, in terms of reputation and goodwill, which was redeemed today in saving their lives

His long-cherished dream singing his way up to fame, took a firm and decisive retreat today. He had more pressing needs- Food, shelter, and safety. Music can wait.

They embarked on their journey, knowing little about where to go, feeling quite scared and betrayed, lacking in trust and direction.

Over the next few days, they strayed from street to street, town to town.Some times on foot, times on a bullock cart or bus or train. Along the way, they learned that India is letting few Bengali Hindus and people of other ethnicities, who are victims of Pakistani atrocities, cross the border and enter India.

Making their way to the border was a cut out tough task for them, firstly because it was a very unsafe atmosphere, and secondly, they didn't have many resources with them. It was evidently connived by the officials to transport refugees across the border in lieu of money. Big money. The same officials were determined otherwise to find and exterminate them. They mostly traveled in early morning hours, when they were veiled in obscurity by the poor light and deserted roads, and spent their afternoons in some fleabag inns in the outskirts. They gathered information as they moved. Information which was cautiously solicited and skeptically looked upon. Information which was not easy to come and even harder to believe. To make themselves inconspicuous and hence invulnerable, Bikon bought skull cap for himself and his father and 'burqa' for his wife. luckily children posed no problem in betraying their identity without makeover. They had even rehearsed their Muslim aliases, just to be sure. Steadily yet Stealthily they paved their way, interacting very little with the locals on the way. From Narayanganj to Sreenagar, crossing Padma river on a wharf, to Sibchar to Gopalganj. From Khilna to Tala and crossing how many godforsaken towns , cities and villages, they soon lost track of the names. Bikon had never gone this far from Narayanganj and was overwhelmed by the enormity of his journey. He thought once:God gave us war but God has given us strength too .He had moved too far away, from his home and his music, to look back. His heart twinged. It took around twelve days for them to reach Kaliganj, barely 300 km from Narayanganj.

Their journey should not be counted in the distances only. They have traveled a long way in their attitude, self-esteem, beliefs, hopes, and patriotism. They were not self-pitying anymore. They were happy that they made it through, together,even if they had to travel ‘this far’. They have abandoned the hopes to be reunited with their home, the hopes ebbing as they moved on .

Kaliganj was the last town in their sojourn. From here they had to walk their way through the jungle to reach a camp near the border, where they will be 'herded' across the border . At least they will be safe then, though destitute. It was approximately 25 km from where they stood facing in the direction of what was perhaps the border. It felt safer here, in the jungle, away from the town and its civility. Moving along like wanderers, their needs had acclimatized amiably with the hardships. It was their final leg of plight, their next resting would be a small makeshift camp for refugees like them which was being provided by the liberation army. Bikon took a long look at the bus , which left them, fading off in the horizon of their homeland. the sun setting on their side added to the poignancy of this moment.

They reached the camp after an hour of trudging. There were around 50 refugees like them in that camp. These nameless and sorrowed people had come from all over the land.they were to be detained here till the Indian army officials come here tomorrow morning and check their documents and enroll them in the register.

 In the evening they were served a dinner which was the best they had after so many days of living off the road.It was hot and they ate in plates . Bikon didn't eat much though. 

After dinner, they all gathered around a fireplace and spoke to each other, hesitantly first out of recent habit and then freely. How much can change in a matter of a few days? 

After so many days Bikon felt like singing today. He positioned his harmonium in a stone slab and sat cross-legged beside it. He toyed with the keys for a while as if to caress a long lost beloved and then attuned the keys a little. He took out his hymnal from his bag and flipped through. Then abruptly He started singing. Initially, his voice sounded somewhat shaky but it soon reached its original sturdy, robust form.

Opening up the raga with the initial warble across the melodic canvas,(refrain) 

“haree Aum, haree Aum, haree Aum, haree Aum”

 And then he started the bandish,(verse)

 “man tarpat hari darshan ko aaj

 more tum been bigare sagare kaaj” 

(long to see Lord Vishnu today

Without you everything is going wrong)

He sang in his mellifluous voice, like never before. For the first time, he sang not for the audience but for himself ,effortlessly yet passionately. He was oblivious to the people around him.He was singing to ease his weary mind, to forget his pain, humiliation, and misery.

He was showering multiple colors with short spurts of 'taan' as refrains, while catching the 'mukhda' to establish the meaning and the fervor of the composition.

His bhajans did a lot of things to the raptured audience. It transported them, for sure. It took them to the very moment they sat on steps on river banks,few days back, in the evening and heard bhajans and peelings of bell emanating from a nearby temple. The Bhajans were uplifting, encouraging, strengthening and had healing power. The people huddled around him were lifted from their angst, sorrow and their self-pity. For a while, people lost their pain and agony and were rendered spellbound. it was evident that pain and art go together. There was a spiritual aura hanging heavily in the air which caused everyone to hypnotize and rooted. He sang one bhajan after another stopping only to wet his cords. His renditions rendered the atmosphere of grief metamorphose into a ceremonial one. His wife looked at him incredulously as if she had never seen him before. His control, his tenor, and treble were astonishingly new to her .He had once mentioned to her that the highest form of singing is the singing for god.And it appeared to her now that he was seeing lord Krishna sitting in front of him.He sang with his eyes closed and body swaying sideways in reverence to God sitting in front of him. It appeared he was not under self-control, anymore. Time, slowed gradually and came to a standstill after a while. 

After around two hours of unremitted singing, he stopped abruptly. And started crying. Together with him, everyone cried.Even the most stolid and stoic could not help themselves betray their emotions. And they kept on crying as there was none to console. They all cried and cried, unabashed, without holding back. It seemed as if all their sorrow and pain was being melted .From the reflection of light emanating from fireplace, tears looked like shining pearls.