Sound Seva

I have struggled to write sound. Braj is replete with spontaneous song, the resounding pekhawaj, the rudraveena in some places of worship, the flute and shehnai played by passersby, the do-tara played by mendicants on the ghat, on occasion, the octopad and synthesiser. Needless to say, this sonic atmosphere is also layered with the unmusical - horn-blowing, shouting of erickshaw-drivers in traffic-frustration, shrieking of monkeys and so on. But finally there is the raag-seva - musical performances to please the Godhead in the premises of temples.

As I struggle to describe sound in a way that does it justice, let me talk a bit about spontaneity and ambivalence. Last night, I heard raag-seva at a haveli temple - a temple housed inside an old mansion. The older singer broke into song while preparing for the arati. As if it were nothing. The teenager came with his pekhawaj and gently applied flour-dough on the sides as he prepared to play. He started beating the sides gently, slowly, as the song picked up. The younger singer watched the words on his mobile phone, as his voice started dancing. Gently, it picked up power. It was all casual. Like it was nothing. Their brilliance, their skill, their devotion - all packed in an exquisite sound was nothing, just a daily offering.

The utterance of the name of God in this exquisite music was accompanied by a quietness. There were a few people who had come to see the Sanjhi decorations. And a couple of people, including me, who hung around to listen to them sing.

I came away thinking it was nothing, nothing, and yet its beauty was necessarily produced in all their lightness. They simply sought to please the Godhead with the power of their voices.