Five (Crying, Music, and Nostalgia at Midnight)

Thursday,

05 .01 .2023

Just a couple of minutes ago, I burst out crying after watching a YouTube video on Brajabuli, by India In Pixels. I was awestruck. The explanation skills of the narrator are marked by a soft voice and meticulous research. There is clarity in those lines that often draws me in. However, that wasn’t the reason behind my tears. There were actually a lot of reasons.

When I first left school, I was a very curious person, looking forward to the future, never missing the past. I was amongst the last students to cry in 10-E, that too only because my crush became a waterfall first. It was hard leaving him. And in 12^th std, I never cried. So, you can imagine my surprise when the I hate my childhood me slowly started realising that there still were parts of my childhood that I did miss.

It is said that memories get pavloved to feelings, places, postures, and even phases of life. So, I kind of understand why I suddenly got emotional when Rabindra Sangeet played in the video in full on classical style. You remember some emotions only when life reminds you; other times you are often busy surviving the rat-race. For me, who never missed my school days, missing them after 4 years of school feels very weird and scary. I never imagined I had happy days as a teen. It seems I had happy hours instead (yes, that’s an unintended pun). I visited my music teacher, “Miss” as we call her, yesterday, accidentally crashed a 6 YO’s class, and sang with her classical songs as she played her very same worn harmonium that she played for me 10 years ago, 5 years ago, and even before Corona. I realised how far I had come from my roots, from Classical music, from Bangla. It felt like I was an outsider only in the home for visiting. I felt like the relatives that come over for a smile, have some sweet conversations, and leave for another few years.

In short, I felt like shit.

What made my case even worse was the fact that I now live in Punjab and, as a hypersensitive introvert, I find that their songs often make my ears bleed, even before I can recognise the alienness of a western language from me who belongs to the eastern India. Some may say that I’m judging Punjabi songs stereotypically but when all they play at parties is Bijli and similar songs, I simply cannot change my stance. Bangla songs soothe my ears and it’s probably the fault of Miss that I, a hardcore Bihari, have that special inclination for Bengalis and Bangla. People in Punjab cannot get high on arts because they are busy getting high on alcohol, from what I see in college. Or maybe, that’s just all colleges? I don’t know. I just realised that I dislike Punjab more than I thought.

Um… where were we?

Oh, yes. So, I went to visit Miss and the emotions of grief and loss hit me hard. I am that Bihari at my college who wears Mithila art shirt on traditional day, talks to people about quintessential Bihari dishes, and is often in Bihar awareness activist mode whenever talk about the state breaks out. And for me who loves being a Bihari in every manner, understanding the contribution of Mithila to the Raags I learnt for so many years made me even prouder. I felt enriched, fulfilled, relieved from a pain I did not know I had. Can you cry out of pride? It seems, I definitely can.

So, I cried. I cried listening to Rabindra Sangeet and recalled the three Bangla songs I learnt. I cried remembering Raag Bhairvi and the word “sakhi” in Dagar Chalat Chede. I cried thinking about how my harmonium lies untouched in my room, packed in a big box, and how I’m scared of hurting myself with the music I have left because I do not want to start singing again when I know I’ll have to go back to college without my magical musical instrument.

I miss spending those two hours a week at Miss’ place, singing taans and gossiping about the world. She is an old woman, full of kindness, patience, and art. I miss visiting her place like I belonged there, like that room with her, our copies, and the harmonium were my solace.

It seems, despite me abandoning music, music did not abandon me.

See, that’s the thing with art. It survives the most dismal of places in some manner. It adapts, reforms, moulds itself to the artist but it never leaves. I could well forget the lyrics and the tunes but if I got my hands on my copy, I could still pick everything up again like you pick up conversations with an old friend.

I am a seemingly very confident but an extremely insecure person. A seemingly open but very private person. I cannot practice singing in front of my roommate or family because I feel vulnerable and it is not a performance I am prepared for. Perhaps, it is because I am a very possessive lover of my art. And this happens with all types of art, be it writing, sketching, or singing. I need to dedicate my heart and soul to it, without even noise from the second hand of the clock being able to come between us.

As I navigate these emotions of home, childhood, and privacy, that I have attached to classical singing, I can not help but want re-start singing. Maybe, writing things out does help and I should not have been sceptical about it. I might have gathered enough courage and will to take my harmonium out and sing tomorrow. Or maybe, I am getting carried away due to the air of a winter night, wishing upon myself that past which I sacrificed to get rid of that past which had me traumatised. I do not know it so well but there is a big hole in my chest that I will have to sleep with tonight.

I wish I had the courage to sing Raag Jaunpuri at midnight.

Pa-a-a-a-yal ki-i jh-a-n-a-ka-ar bai-raniyaan…

P.S. – Comment if you really wanna me hear sing Raag Jaunpuri. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯