A blue sign with white text reads, « DON’T STAND OR SIT HERE, » taped to a surface with worn marks, much like a passport without a valid stamp to India.

---

Your courtyard is now a mountain, and the threshold, a foreign country… #NoVisa — A life in India 5

An intense cry cut the air, splitting the space in two. Sustaining the longing svara, the breath emanated from Pandit Bhimsen Joshi’s lungs. The courtyard resonated with shades of lament, torment, displacement, separation, and exile. Then, Akhtarpiya gradually disappeared from the eyes of the world, lifted away on his palanquin, never to return.

« DON’T STAND OR SIT HERE », bellows the sign taped to the wall. Little did they know that the Awadh king’s banishment would lead to the flourishing of thumri.

बाबुल मोरा, नैहर छूटो ही जाए
O my father! I’m leaving home.

And so, the pariah found a new path. Under the wide, dark firmament, he kept walking (sometimes with a dancing gait). It took several years for his march to become so thin, so fluid. Evanescent, almost.

One morning, around the time most suited to Bhairavi, he lit an incense stick, sat down and listened. First came the sa, then two garlands of avarohana raindrops, falling from the sky, followed by a convoluted string line. The stage was set to welcome the soothing voice of Lakshmi Shankar. He felt like Siras, slipping into the melodic meanders of a nightingale, taking in every intoxicating sip. A lonely, elderly professor subjected to betrayal and humiliation in the fall of his life.

He once was, but he is not any longer. 

Meanwhile, the incense stick was releasing its scented smoke. Hypnotised, he entered a realm where poetry, melody, and emotion were dancing. He knew himself to be free to roam anywhere he wished, never restrained, never contained. Ascetic and naked, forever unshackled.

#NoVisa — A life in India 5

This post is also published on my medium account. Click here to read it and/or subscribe.