२४ जून २०११ को अभिजात हमारे जीवन में आया. मैं  उसे निहारता रहा और सोचता रहा कि फ़रिश्ते किस रंग के हुआ करते हैं? शायद गुलाबी. वो अब एक महीने का हो गया है पर रह रह कर मुझे गुलाबी फ़रिश्ता ही याद  आता है. 

जायज़ है. मौसम के साथ रंग भी बदलेगा, ढंग भी   

पर उस दोपहर, कुछ रूहानी सा था (या शायद खाली पेट कि गड़बड़ सोच)

वो मुझे फ़रिश्ता-नुमा ही दिखा,

और रंग? जी हाँ गुलाबी !!!

गुलाबी फ़रिश्ते 

मेरे गुलाबी फ़रिश्ते 

हरी पत्तियों सी चादर में लिपटे 

तुम्हे पहली बार देखकर

मैं मान गया था 

कि तुम विजेता हो

अपनी माँ की गर्म, आरामदायक 

कोख का सुख छोड़ कर 

आ गए थे सांसों कि लड़ाई लड़ने 

थोड़े नाराज़ कुनमुनाए से

तुम्हारा रुदन 

शंखनाद था जीवन का

पर बेटा जीवन कोई बच्चों का खेल नहीं 

जीना पड़ेगा इसका हर एक मौसम, 

गर्म हवा, कड़क जाड़ा और भीषण बरसात के थपेड़े 

हर एक रंग, हर एक राग

ये तो मैं हूँ जो इसको कई बार झेलकर 

कई बार जीत कर, कई बार हार कर 

अब सयानों सी बातें करता हूँ 

पर तुम?

तुमने तो अभी कुछ भी नहीं देखा

फिर भी 

माँ कि गोद में 

हलकी थपकियों के साथ

निश्चिन्तता से सोते हो,

कैसे? 

तुम विजेता ही तो हो 

मेरे गुलाबी फ़रिश्ते,

तुम्हे देखकर अब मुझे 

गर्म हवा, कड़क जाड़े और भीषण बरसात से डर नहीं लगता

तुम्हे देखकर अब मुझे 

हारने का डर नहीं लगता 

Basant Aaya Hai

फिर खिला है भीमपलास
और उसके चटक रंगों में
जलने लगा है मन का जंगल
सुना बसंत आया है
गुनगुनी हो गयी  है ठंडी सुबह
और दोपहरी ऊंघने लगी है
बढ़ने लगा है सांझ का इंतज़ार
सुना बसंत आया है
- नूपुर

Zakir: Drumming Up A Storm

Zakir Drumming Up A Storm. Pic: Selina Nihalani

I'm so glad that cricket has Sachin Tendulkar. With his WMD- Willow Of Matchless Dimensions -he has taken a huge burden off  the nation's shoulders by setting enough world records to make it near impossible for anyone to surpass it sometime soon.   
Ustad Zakir Hussain can now play his tabla in peace.
Imagine what would have happened if Zakir had overruled the orders of his father and teacher Ustad  Allah Rakha "Abbaji" about not  playing cricket? I'm sure the game would have got its  master blaster, but the world of rhythm would have missed a beat.  

What Zakir does with the Tabla is what Tendulkar does with the game - redefine it within the existing discipline of the art. 

And the reason Abbaji kept  Zakir away from the game was the fear that the ball of leather weighing over 150g could injure the fingers of his prodigy son - who, as destiny would have it, will deal with a different kind of leather - stretched and mounted to make a Tabla.  

I read it somewhere that if you feel you've made it big in life, go to a seashore at high tide. The expanse of the blue waters and the mighty waves, will make you realize how small a speck you are in this wide world.
Better still, you can watch Ustad Zakir Hussain play at the annual "Abbaji" concert. It is only an odd chance that you won't come back humbled by the magnanimity of his music.
There is of course a pre-condition.
You have to give up yourself . Like a sick animal, leave it to the mercy of His will and his music.

Undoubtedly Ustad. Pic: Selina

Walk into the auditorium and put everything on stake - your ego, incompetency  or insecurities. Everything that is unwanted but comes bundled with the "life you wished for," stack all of it and make a big tower.
Then let him play. He would first sprinkle some water on the earth of your soul. You would realize how quickly you are soaking it all up.
There will be some very complicated maneuvers, some staccato kneading of the stretched nerves and some slapdash jerks.  
And then he would build a storm. Just like that, on a whim.
You will be  dizzy clutching the seat handles as he would ruthlessly dash and destroy everything in a mere dha ta dha ta dhaaaaa!!!. You would repent. Why did you put a brave front. It would have been better if you had surrendered.

Zakir, V Selvaganesh and Niladri. Pic: Selina

Mind you if you dare to think about the car you parked in the tow-away zone or the incomplete presentation or the Blackberry that is going mad whizzing on the vibrator mode burning your thighs.   The thunderstorm is raging and if u remain on the edge you would go unsteady. It is better that you start moving into the sanctum - the eye of the storm.The "Siyahi" - the dark hardened ink in the middle of the tabla is your abode and witness how nothing is left of the nothing in your life.  
So what would you call Zakir - the  successor of a 5000-year-old tradition of music? A tabla virtuoso?  Glamour incarnate with curly long locks and sharp features? And what would you remember when you go back?
(If you had not recorded him like those fancy cellphone-carrying, air-kissing SoBo crowd who sacrificed listening to him in the present to record and hear him in the future on a hazy screen).

Nothing. Absolutely Zilch!

Zakir, Sabir Khan on Sarangi, V Selvaganesh on Kanjira, Niladri on Sitar and the Kawa Band Members. Pic: Selina

You would of course remember that Zakir played the tabla and there was George Brooks on saxophone, Tanzanian singers and Uma Mahesh on Vocals, Niladri on the funky-looking postbox red sitar,  Ranjit Barot on the drums, Sridhar on the Mridang, Taufiq on the Djemba and also a baraat of Kawa  Brass Band from Rajasthan. 

You will remember the colours. 

But hues? 

He was filling up your goblet of life. Joy overflowed, you came on the edge of the seat, turned your hands red clapping and at the pinnacle of it all -  he pushed you! The rhythm stopped. 

The only sound you hear is the cooing in the ears like someone has boxed them hard or if you're aware enough, a fast-beating heart? 

Thou giveth, thou taketh away. 

You are outside the auditorium now. Clueless. Friends meet shake hands, hug each other and you overhear and may say words like "fuck, awesome, badhiya, outstanding, lovely, shandaar, jaandar, zabardast." Feeble all.  

How was it? You cannot cross the same river twice, can you? Can you play like him to show how it was? Do you have a benchmark that "it was like ..."  

Why even try?
If you had put everything on stake, you would have lost it.
All you may want to do is just help someone cross the road. Take them home like you reached yours. Cleansed Unwound.
"Don't try to be a master. Always be a student of life and you would do just fine" - Zakir Hussain on Feb 3, 2011

The Bhimsen Of Indian Classical Music: A Tribute

The Indian folklore has it that when Mian Tansen, one of the nine jewels in the court of Mughal Emperor Akbar, stirred the notes of Raag Malhar, it rained.
When asked, Pt. Bhimsen Joshi agreed that savants in those times possessed so much power in their voice to force the clouds to rain. "today it is impossible. The singers today sing in the monsoon and later say it was Malhar," he said.
However, sarod maestro Ustad Amjad Ali Khan had a different take. "I agree that the divinity, which was a part of our music in olden times, is fading. But I'm sure that when Pt. Bhimsen Joshi would sing the Malhar, it would rain."
This was Mr. Khan's way of conferring on Pt. Bhimsen Joshi, a compliment befitting the Tansen of our times. No wonder Mian ki todi, a composition believed to be created by Tansen, was a favourite of Pt. Bhimsen Joshi. Sadly the dark clouds will come but there will no more be a "Bhimseni Alaap" to lure them. 
Pt. Bhimsen Joshi took his final bow on the stage of this world on Jan 24, 2011,  leaving behind a legacy too large for the shoulders of any vocalist of our times to carry.
It was the year 2005. I managed to escape the drudgery of work to attend one of his  concerts being held in a school ground. On my way in, I saw a hand written poster pasted on the wall which in Marathi read "Bhimsen Joshi, Shastriya Sangeet Cha Bhagwan." (Bhimsen Joshi, the God of classical music).
Inside, every inch of the ground was occupied. The air was still and on the stage was that very God. 
Wearing a white cotton kurta, frail and half wrapped in a shawl looking above the heads of the people. 
He closed his eyes for a moment and in his deep sonorous voice stirred the Shadaj, the first note of the Sargam. The voice instantly pulled at our heart. 
In the next two hours, the frail looking old gent started growing bigger. So big that he evolved into a persona large and magnificent as his own name - BHIMSEN.  While we, the audience kept shrinking as his powerful notes circled around and held us in a firm clasp - spellbound. His composition "Kshetra Vitthal, Teerth Vitthal" is still fresh memory of that  evening.   


 I saw the news of his death on a television screens while I was rushing into my office building early yesterday.  Even before I could remember him for a few minutes, I realized, the day had already decided its course. I gave in.


At 10:30 pm, as I switched on the television at home to end the tiring day, there he was, doing what he does the best - catching music from thin air and weaving them into a raag. 
Our long forgotten Doordarshan, was showing a documentary on Panditji, made by none other than Gulzar for the Films Division many many years ago.  
It was a pleasure to  relive him. The down to earth ordinary Puneri who was extraordinary in his simplicity. 
"There are many more singers today than in the past," he said. 
"They are also more intelligent. But their song doesn't touch the heart" 
Unlike yours, which has touched a million. How do we ever forget you Panditji?  

Jal Samadhi

यह जो मेरे साथ
कुछ अनसुलझा सा चलता है
वो तुम ही हो
जो मुझे समझ नहीं आते
जमी हुई नदी की
पतली बर्फ की सतह पर
तुम्हे जानने के लिए
सावधानी से बढ़ता हूँ
और अचानक  गुप! से गिर जाता हूँ
ठन्डे पानी में

वो डूबकी

जैसे रोम रोम में सुइयां चुभा देती है 

और पल भर में  कंपता मैं 

किसी कार्क की तरह

फिर सतह पर आ जाता हूँ
पानी के मंथन में
हिचकोले खाता हुआ
किनारे को खोजता
लेकिन सतह पर तैरते रहने से
गहरायी की थाह तो नहीं मिलेगी
क्यों नहीं में डूबता चला जाता
जल तल में
समाधी में
सर के ऊपर जल और उसके भी ऊपर संसार
और तल में बैठा मैं
तुम्हे समझने के लिए शायद डूबना ही पड़ेगा

Rajasthan "Uprooted": A Comedy of Errors

Born to parents with roots  in Punjab and Rajasthan, I develop an instant connect with the food, music or culture of these regions, especially music. About three years ago, I was in Jaipur for a conference. The evening was relatively free and I was lounging around at the Jai Mahal Palace sipping on a large Old Monk when I first heard them in the lobby.

The manager said they were Rajasthan Roots. 

The Band

I tried searching for their album but failed. 
Two years back, in a similar search on the world wide web, I came across the videos of Jaipur-based Morchang Studios,  of which, Rajasthan Roots were  an integral part. 
The two dozen odd videos onYoutube were marijuana. 
I played them on and on. The rendition of Bulleh Shah's "Antbahardi" and the haunting  "Kesariya Balam" composed in "Raag Mand" by Munshi Khan kept on playing in my head long after I had shut  the system. 
The roots had firmly clasped my heart. 
I also introduced these videos to more than a 100 of my friends who had similar auditory preferences. The impact was similar if not the same. 

Last night, after a three-year long wait, I finally heard Rajasthan Roots at The Comedy Store. A band of six bunched together on a stage fit for stand-up comics. The 300-seater auditorium was about half full (the optimist in me as you can see.) 

Before they strum the first chord, let me just rewind a bit. The event promos said -  "A high energy performance of Sufi poetry, vocal harmonies and percussion, combining the eclectic Sufi traditions of the desert with electronic rhythms and Soundscapes.

 A tribute to Saint Bulleh Shah, Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Abida Parveen."

To someone who has spent thousands of hours  immersing himself in music, the word "Sufi" is bound to strike a chord.  Sufism for us, who, from dawn to dusk, are strapped to our chairs peering into flickering computer screens,  is like that oasis. The undoing of the soul  is such an unachievable feat that we would continue to dream about it, knowing all the time that the Sufi way indeed is the highway.  

Rajasthan Roots had christened the performance as Sufi-tronics. The mind said beware, the heart said go for it...remember the lovely melody playing in Jaipur? So heart ruled over the mind and I landed up at the venue. 

So Rajasthan Roots live! Hey hold on...where is Munshi Khan? 
The concert  began with a blues-style presentation of  Nanak's bhajan " Vaari Jaon Re". The rendition progressed  and I was left agape. 
With every passing  minute, I was moving further away from the Sufism of the soul. 
The vocal "disharmonies" of the high-pitched off-key voice of Adi and the rustic scales of Kutle Khan was jarring.  
The second composition "Antebahardi" written by  Bulleh Shah was overpowered by a loud drum roll. 
Dear Adi, you have a voice which fits only a certain type of songs. The longing and the loneliness which stirs the soul of an office-going Sufi-aspirant like me,  please excuse, was totally absent. 

My dilemma was that Adi, the lead of the band, your fingers were working up  the strings in an awesome manner but the voice defied the gravity of   songs like that demanded. 
The  songs about a dancing peacock and Diggipuri Ka Raja, despite being very well arranged, were cacophony. 
The discordant notes put me off. 
It is only in the second half, when judging the restless mood of the audience, you unleashed Kutle Khan. It was a welcome relief. In the first half he just waited for your cues to go ballistic on all barrels. And he lived up to it at the first opportunity.

His was an awesome jugalbandi with the wind-instrument Algoza followed by a lovely solo on Khartal and Bhapang. 


The crowd cheered up when he sang Dam Must Kalandar and Dama Dum Mast Kalandar. But please rewind to the videos of Morchang Studio where Kutle is displaying his excellent command over instruments. 

Kutle Khan is an awesome bhapang and khartal player. He is not...repeat NOT a lead vocalist. His voice does not have the call of  sand dunes of Jaisalmer, though he hails from the same land.

He could be a fantastic supporting vocal but NEVER the lead. An awesome percussionist but not the vocals. But the crowd had to settle for him with no better options. 

Anyone who has experienced Sufi music and has grown up on those canonball aalaps of Nusrat and Abida,  will know that the voice of the Sufi emerges from his navel, pulls your heart strings and reverberates the sky above or the roof in this case. 
The kharaj and laraz, the intricate murkiyans are such copyrighted stuff of the tribes of Langas and Manganiars, that only a few could even dream of replicating it. 
Kutle's performance was good but the bar is still higher.

The greatest piece  in your six-member band was the saxophone player. He had the most soulful contribution to the otherwise a damp performance. 
Live has to be livewire nothing less. 

The Roots have to be well grounded. Offshoots don't work. The greater disappointment is that your efforts were  well intended. There was never once a doubt in my mind that you sincerely wish to be that cult rooted band to help evolve Rajasthani music  from its cliches of always playing  to the gallery.

It is when noble efforts like these fail it hurts the most.

Maybe too much  effort has gone into it. Sufism is so simple to understand that the intelligent can never fathom it.  Maybe a simpleton voice,  a khartal player, your supporting guitar and a dholak would have easily served the purpose.

 Like Bulleh Shah said in his song, made immortal by your idol Sain Zahoor....Basi Kari Oo Yaar, Ilam Basi Kari Oo Yaar...Ek Alif Tere Darkar (Hold on your search for knowledge. It is only Alif the letter that you need to know to remember Allah). May your music find its roots where they belong. 

Writer Unblocked

A common problem with most bloggers is the frequency of their posts.Most of them start a blog with high hopes of creating masterpieces with their writings. The first post is always overwhelming with friends sending congratulatory messages. However, the spirit of updating the blog fizzles out soon. Many at times  forget their passwords to the blog and that great  "masterpiece" is left orphaned in the world wide virtual web. 

I'm no different. 

Despite a firm resolve to write a page daily, the irregularity bug got the better of me. I questioned - "But there is nothing interesting to write today?" What is interesting anyway? Is the blog supposed to be the diary of a superman? 

A few days back no rathar about a month back or two back while I was ready to switch of my workstation to call it a day, Harsh called up. It was not strange he called. I and Harsh usually call up each other whenever we read something interesting. A poem, a ghazal a quote etc. 

But that evening he called up to read out his poems. Of course I have heard and read his poems, but these were his poems written in school many many years ago. 

Though I don't remember much of the poem, I do remember that both of us felt that life was passing as it should, only that somwhere we went astray. We melted into a template of comfort. We did our work and came back home. Satisfied souls. 

Harsh remember how for many years he maintained a daily diary. I also recalled the many many poems I wrote during my school days. How pain, love, separation, friendship, peace, the country, all of these emotions  had so much meaning in those days. But why today I think of love as a foolish emotion, pain a reality, separation as a fatality, peace as a dream and the country corrupt.  

Is there nothing to write about?

In a way the conversation hurt me deep inside. I decided there is of course more to the life I was leading. I'm as you know a journalist. Words are my tools. However, when I sat down to write a page why did those words refused to settled on the pages?

But stubborn as I am. I have decided to write again. Anything and everything. Someone reads it better if someone does not, its awesome!

Today I did the long overdue cleaning of my office cabinet. It was supposed to be done around Jan 1 but as life would have it....

From the numerous pages, I fished out a bundle of dogeared poems, half written ideas and what not. What better way to start writing again by revisiting the same words. Those words were so friendly to me, it is easy to reproduce them back into the digital world. So cheers to another beginning!