The Harmonium

Hasan Immam

It was impossible for anyone or anything to be unobtrusive in the space to which I was led by unconventional ushers. Everyone present was an original, in their own fiercely individual ways. Funky music addicts with blue-dyed hair, clean-shaven Buddhist monks of European extraction, nostalgic Asians like myself, and regular, curious metropolitan young people interested in 'happenings' mingled self-consciously with one another as they found places to sit, squat or perch. The walls were plastered with the lurid art of over-confident young rebels which the organization obviously supported. I could not help thinking that it would be difficult to have traditional Indian concerts here, because the paintings were of the screaming variety and would have clashed hopelessly with the mood of almost any raga I could think of. The room was thick with human vibrations and I wondered with motherly concern how the simple Baul singer from Bangladesh would fare.

I need not have worried. The Baul was quite at home. In fact, he seemed to be carrying his home with him in his mind and confidently expected his audience to share it. The first plaintive cry of his hoarse voice was so convincing that everyone was transported. The instruments followed suit. The ill-tuned drums began to rumble happily, and the strings twanged and rasped to a compulsive rhythm. It was hypnotic but disturbingly off-key. I consoled myself with the thought that at least the atmosphere was close to what I was longing for, even though there was nothing to soothe my ear. Just then, a disheveled member of the Baul's party returned from the washroom, smiled uncertainly and casually took his place behind a waiting harmonium. He ran his cadaverous fingers over the keys to test the instrument. The melody that emerged took my breath away. It was the most tuneful, beautiful sound I had heard for months. Certainly I had never come across a harmonium that could hold its own like this. The double reeds were perfectly tuned, the tone was like velvet, and the silent breath had incredible range. Undoubtedly the creation of a master craftsman, I thought. The relief from the earlier sounds was overwhelming. I was so grateful to the wielder of this magic box that I rushed to congratulate him at the end of the evening. I was also curious about the instrument-maker whose skill had given me so much unexpected pleasure; but to my amazement the player seemed quite unaware of the quality of what he had just played. 'The baja is not ours. We have borrowed it from him', he said, pointing to a slightly flabby, clean-shaven man in his early forties. Owning and cherishing an instrument like this had so many implications that I just had to meet the real owner. He was bound to be an extraordinarily musical person, exactly like the kind of friend I needed just then. I asked to be led to him forthwith.

When I was facing him, I introduced myself, first in English, and then, encouraged by his polite and authentic 'ji', I slipped comfortably into Hindustani. He was much younger than I, and was deferential in a way I had become unused to. He was not articulate in English but the Dilli ka muhavara I deliberately served up to him evoked a powerful response. He was also from the Old City of Delhi but had not spoken or heard good Urdu for twenty years. For ten years he had lived among Punjabis in Lahore, and then had escaped to the USA to settle down in Queens in New York. He was yearning for a cultural reconnection with his roots. He told me his name was Shahid Akhtar Khan, and we were soon chatting like long-lost friends. He glowed and blushed when I complimented him on his wonderful harmonium. 'Yes, it is in great demand in the Tri-Square area', he said with that special mixture of modesty and pride that only people from our subcontinent know how to use. The Baul party had returned the harmonium to him by now and it rested on a nearby chair, draped in a laced dark-green velvet cover that looked a hundred years old. He stroked and patted it lovingly as though it were a prize racehorse.

Now it was time for him to say something nice to me. Civilities snowballed, as they often do in oriental settings. Shahid complimented me on my speaking voice and my accent which reminded him of his mother, his favourite aunt, the mohalla of Ballimaran that he had grown up in, and everything else that was dear to him. Would I please go on talking to him in Urdu? Would I also please agree to talk to his elder sister on the telephone? She would be very grateful. She was married to a Polish businessman and lived in a state of pathological homesickness in New Jersey, with no relief in sight. I asked Shahid whether he himself was a musician. No, he said, though he adored music. I gathered in slow stages that his area of activity was as far from music as it could possibly be. He worked as a loader with Pakistan International Airways at Kennedy Airport! This I was not prepared for.

Life injections by telephone became a daily occurrence after this encounter, as sort of game. Sometimes the homesick sister would also participate. We would all deliberately try to speak a formal, flowery, overly polite, almost courtly Urdu of long ago that could not possibly have meant anything in our frenetic New York existence. Shahid was going to be my humble servant for ever. The opportunity to be of use to an incomparable artist like myself was his great good fortune and he would pray to the Almighty that the privilege should never be denied him. He had decided that I was a great musician without ever having heard me perform. I protested, but he just knew, because this was something God had told him personally. He clinched the argument by saying I was like his mother and the Holy Book said heaven lay under the mother's feet. I countered his avalanches with equally stately rejoinders. I was not worthy of such devotion. I had done nothing to deserve it. God had shown me His mercy by leading me to Shahid through his harmonium. And so on. Anyhow, we got mildly addicted to this sort of exchange and began to use it as an intoxicant fairly regularly. Meanwhile, both Shahid and I continued to toil at our respective roles in the city of New York, both more secure in the knowledge that a reliable new supporter was now only a phonecall away.

When the ardour of our first exchanges subsided a little, I asked Shahid how he had acquired his harmonium. It could not have too many peers. I had once seen one which was something like it in Lucknow in the possession of Begum Akhtar. I remembered her telling me she had personally supervised every stage of its construction and assembly with a famous craftsman of Calcutta, and that it had taken two years to complete and another three for its tone to 'take on colour'. I knew that Shahid himself could not have had the resources or ability to make the same kind of effort. He told me frankly that the instrument belonged to Afrida Khanum, a celebrated ghazal singer of Pakistan, who was the mother-in-law of a friend of his in Queens. She had not been able to carry it back with her after a concert tour in the States and had left it in the indefinite custody of her son-in-law, to be transported at a future date. The son-in-law was transferred to Atlanta, Georgian, and had left his clutter with his friend. Ten years had passed and nobody seemed to be doing anything about restoring the harmonium to its owner. So far as Shahid was concerned, it was like a stray cat that had sneaked into his house and decided to live with him. The harmonium was his by default. Even though

he was not directly aware of its virtues, its performance as a magic carpet that could fly him almost anywhere slowly convinced him that he had come by a treasure.

I had known Shahid for about two months when I got my first chance to perform in New York. A wealthy American patron of Indian dance and music organized an evening for interested people in his large apartment in Manhattan and invited me to give a vocal recital. I accepted and excitedly rang up Shahid. At last I could be on stage along with his fabulous harmonium! Would he accompany me? Yes, yes, of course, there was no question! He would go with me to the ends of the earth! He would take leave from his job, stand on his head, do whatever was needed. It would be an unprecedented honour for him, this nacheez, to be associated with my wonderful music. Clearly, it was all settled.

On the appointed evening, he came to our apartment in a flashy maroon car to take me and my large tanpura to the scene of action. He was dressed in an impressive Pakistani shalwar suit and smelt of musk or something equally overpowering. When I introduced him to my husband and elder son, he was courtesy itself. But my family wasn't quite sure how to react, especially since I could not tell them where we were going and for how long. Shahid was taking care of the details and I was quite happy to be in his hands. 'If you are not back by midnight, I'm going to the police', my son stage-whispered fiercely as we left.

The fashionable Fifth Avenue apartment which was our destination had been tuned into a baithak fit for an Indian cultural evening. Diyas flickered in antique brass lamps. Most of the American guests were turned out in ethnic Indian fabrics, beads and chunky silver jewellery which proclaimed their interest and support. An Indian dancer who lived in New York had brought a huge bowl of kheer 'for afterwards' and smilingly garnished it with red rose petals as she set it on the table meant for refreshments. Shahid and I settled down decorously on the Irani carpet with our instruments. Someone quickly checked the sound system and the recording apparatus. Shahid unveiled the harmonium and rested his fingers on the keys. His eyes were fixed expectantly on my face. At last the moment had come.

I started by singing a long note to introduce the raga. Even before I could hear myself properly, Shahid burst into a volley of applause. ‘Wah, wah! Kya kehne! Kya baat hai, kya awaaz hai!' he expostulated, startling and mystifying everyone, including me. To things were clear. One, that he had no ear for music, otherwise he would have waited till I had really done something with my vice before exploding like that. Second, his

enthusiasm had no connection with my caliber as a singer. He was determined to lionize me for some complicated psycho-cultural reasons of his own that I could not quite fathom. I was nonplussed but plodded on with the recital. At this point I noticed that no sound was emerging from the harmonium, although Shahid was constantly emitting sounds of appreciation for my efforts from his throat. He concentrated his attention on the smallest whisper I might produce, but his fingers lay inert on the keys. I gestured to him several times to begin playing, but absolutely nothing happened. He did not even know what to do with the bellows. He gestured back helplessly, and to my utter disbelief mouthed the words: 'I don't know how to play', as though this was just a minor detail.

To Shahid, the harmonium was an important object in a serious ritual and he was the designated attendant. He saw nothing incongruous in the situation. Even while I was singing, it came to me in a flash that to him this harmonium was not so much a musical instrument as an insurance against loneliness. Because of it, he was in great demand, and on its wings was regularly able to escape from the dreariness of his suburban American existence. It was his credit card, an entrance ticket to a warmer and friendlier world, a priceless possession which lent him value and eminence. I thought of the accident which had left the harmonium in his care. A strange sympathy for him and his utter ignorance of the ways of the music world welled up in me. However, this cluelessness did not faze him in the least and he continued to greet the smallest musical phrase I uttered with loud cries of appreciation and encouragement, like a fervent spectator at a bull fight. There was no way out of my embarrassment. I could hardly pretend I had nothing to do with him. We were clearly a duo, joined at the waist so far as the audience was concerned, and the sum total of the sound input that evening was squarely my responsibility.

At last my ordeal ended and the host invited the guests to ask any questions they wished. There were a number of innocuous ones which were neither here nor there. But then came a question that profoundly affected my own understanding of the music I had been practicing for years. An earnest American lady from the Asia Society furrowed her brow with concentration and said in slow, measured tones that she wanted a clarification. 'The gentleman sitting to your left seemed to be saying a lot of things all through the concert. I want to know what it was. Was it a part of the song? Or the music? I must say the gentleman's constant participation didn't sound much like music, but it seemed to fit right in!'

Nothing could have been more true. It set me thinking about some fundamental things. Yes, it was a part of the music in an organic sense, an inalienable part without which the intended communication in Indian music cannot really happen.

Neither Shahid not the lady from the Asia Society can have any idea of how many doors they accidentally opened for my mind that evening.

Sheila Dhar is a classical singer and the author of Here's Someone I'd Like You to Meet. She lives in Delhi.