Barrel of a Gun


Barrel of a Gun

It is evening the first performance was by Mehr Band. The only orchestra of Indian classical music in the world. Baba’s unique recipe. This time Raga Kosi Kangra was introduced. Narendra’s shine. A different melody rising from each instrument – like the waves of the sea, sometimes rising alone, sometimes mingling with each other, sometimes hitting the rocks with a strong current, sometimes calming down for a moment as soon as the presentation was over, I went to the back of the stage to talk to the musicians of Myer Band He kept talking and I kept typing words in my notebook gradually, the depression hidden in the music that was heard some time ago began to float in the air. These people are unique musicians of their kind in the world but the dissatisfaction with living a modest life in a small town was deep inside them. In conversation, his past opened up to me like a book the Maiher Orchestra began in 1918. It was called the Mehr String Orchestra. Ustad Allauddin Khan had started training orphans during the plague in Mehr. Five were nine-year-old boys. They were given very difficult training.

He has also beaten the orchestra consisting of a variety of instruments – from clarinet, saranga, and mini piano. When it became difficult to use the water wave, Baba invented a new one.

He cut the barrels of all the useless guns lying in the king’s court and made a new instrument by touching the sounds of music with them. The band’s first performance was at the Bhatkhande Music Festival in 1926. All these musicians arrived on stage in their rustic costumes. There were great musicians, so with great difficulty, they got a chance for a while during the break. Baba himself used to stand with this orchestra carrying a violin. Silence fell with the first offer It is said that after that the people present there only listened to Mehr Band during the night.

After that, the band’s musicians got a lot of respect. Special clothes were sewn for them The band member who was telling me all this was wearing the same special kind of clothes. Laughing, he pointed to Surdas and Jherilal, who were sitting next to him, “Baba has killed them.” He began to say, “Slowly the people taught by Baba died, new and dedicated disciples are no longer available” I felt there was a kind of sadness in those words. The difficulty of not being able to achieve anything. After the presentation, I will feel the instrument wires and clean and secure them.

Meaningless shadows sinking into depression Didn’t music give them anything? gradually more pages of the story unfolded. The local politics, jealousy, ambition, and greed that flourished in this small town also began to come to the fore. There was another side to the world of music that was unlucky and selfish that night we heard 14-year-old Arkand Mitra’s drum beats, Kathak dancer Sushmita Banerjee’s footsteps flowing from a water fountain, and Ustad Sajjad ​​Hussain Khan’s slow and medium rhythm performances on the satar. Celebrities of Indian classical music, who have been making a name for themselves in the world since the sixties, keep coming here. The melody emanating from these throats and the jingle of the instruments became immortal under the sky of Mehr year after year.

Surely these melodies will fall into the sleep of children even if they become dreams. Music lives on in the memories of the locals. It is as if we have become empty and light from within our host reporter had a lot of stories.

Whenever we moved from one place to another we would cross the bridge of these stories, because they were often with us. Make fine betel nuts from Socrates – like a pencil stick made with a sharpener. The next day Narendra and I got rid of him. We left the temple of Goddess Mehr without telling them anything. High, perfectly straight rocky stairs, like going up to the sky. Everyone on the stairs was looking weird, jumping upstairs. We paused for a moment to relieve our fatigue, took deep breaths, and when we returned, the townhouses began to look smaller and smaller. About 18 years ago, I climbed the same stairs to save my breath.

It was evening. The red light of the sun was falling on us. My father’s clothes were flying in the air and reached the same place 18 years later. In the deep darkness of the evening, Maiher looked like an oil-colored landscape. Smoke rising from the distant factory chimneys like a picture, but feel a slight tremor.

The silence before and after the music is everywhere on Maiher’s rocks. Perhaps it was this silence that attracted Baba Allauddin Khan so many years ago that he decided to move there. Everyone here talked so much about Baba that in the evening I began to have the illusion that baba that evening we reached Mehr and met Shubha Madrigal. Shubha is a beautiful and settled woman. He was interviewed in the outer lobby of the guest house.

When his classical pop ‘Ali Moore Angana’ came on the market these days, I wanted to know about it. “My thought was to record margin bhajans and supernatural words on traditional ragas.” She said, “My music chief maintained that a Western symphony should be set behind the scenes of these tunes.

At first, I didn’t like the idea, but later I was fine with their explanation and action. Meet young people from Delhi who have become my fans with ‘Ali Moore Angana’ referring to Fusion, he said that today’s artists have the advantage of being able to listen to all kinds of musicians, if anyone listens to Russian music and works under it, it is also Fusion. Of course, if a famous artist creates.

Their basic concept of fusion is good. Fusion shouldn’t just be a miracle”Shubha was understanding the developing business sector tension on elegance and appeared to be stressed over it someplace. We sometimes have to rely on short offers. At least first Didn’t go down without explaining myself, “he said the next stop that evening was Pandit Bhajan Sopore. While in college, I started collecting classical music cassettes at my own expense.

In those days I had a cassette of Hamad Sopore which I often listened to alone at night. A roaring sound like a mountain spring. It is a folk classical instrument, then perhaps it smells of clay sopore began to tell us about the santor, “This instrument was first associated with the Shiva tradition. It was later adopted by the Sufis.

This is not in the tradition of folk music. This system is a form of vein. I have changed it according to the stars, mind, and turab. Let’s talk about fusion with them, he said, “We have a lot of fusion here. Many of our melodies are born of mutual fusion. I have done some experiments myself. I have a CD. ‘Kashmir-A Rainbow of Melodies’. It is dominated by Santor and has 10-12 instruments. One such recipe is ‘Il Lake’ There will be a proper pattern in it. There will be some reason why I am using drums, not drums.

He said, “My coming here is a tribute. Baba was not just a musician, he was a monk, a sadhu, and a worshiper. Coming here from Khajuraho, I was thinking that Baba does not need Mumbai or America but where is Indian classical music now making its mark in Mehar or Delhi, Kolkata, and the US? This series of talks continued that day as well. From Kolkata, Sushmita Banerjee, sitar player Sajjad ​​Hussain Khan, and drummer Abhijeet Banerjee talked about creating distance from families and people on CD, fusion, and classical music Narendra’s glow continued to shine.

Wrapped by day This was our last night in Meher the feeling of cold was still there at night. The sounds coming from the flute of Rajendra Parsna of the Banaras family were echoing. That night, a girl sitting a short distance from us was interested in our presence through Narendra’s camera. We met the day before. On this last winter’s night, she would stay up all night in a shawl. She had come to see the ceremony with her aunt.

She soon mingled with Narendra and me once the Katni girl started talking, she started talking. She told us that her parents are also interested in music, she is doing LLB at the moment, that the people of Jabalpur are not good, and that Sanjeev Abhiyankar of Pune is currently offering deportation in Raag Bagishori. , Whose name is contentment padat Bhajan Sopore performed Raga Kosi Kangra on Santor. Shaking with long accents and delaying locks, they merge into the falling temperature of the night like a worm wandering on a rainy night. The beat of Abhijeet Banerjee’s drum began to meet with Santor at its own pace.

In a short time, this offer became unforgettable. Music is a green slope. On which we are slipping. The night has passed. Not sleeping during the day made us a little cheaper. Bhasuti Mishra was performing a dance drama based on Dharmaveer Bharati’s composition ‘Kanupriya’. Narendra and I came out. In the light of twinkling stars in the sky, Abhijeet was seen holding a cup of tea in his hand and taking a sip. I, Narendra, Abhijeet, and Tripti had just become friends that night. We were drinking tea and talking. It was morning. The east was red. The shadows of the night were left in the lazy eyes of contentment, waking up all night and wrapped in a shawl.

Now Ustad Ashish Khan’s anthem was to be played, the last performance of the Mehr ceremony. When Master Sahib grabbed the anthem, suddenly the wind started blowing.

He started chanting. The time to play this melody is considered to be in the morning. A piece of soft sunlight rested on the teacher’s santor and then I remembered that it was time to say goodbye to the seal I don’t think there will be any benefit in your career. How many people are reading about music?” The reporter there told me while grabbing the peel of betel nut from Sarota. Right now I’m thinking of an answer that the train stopped on a beating platform, we quickly jumped in, shook hands and crawled on the platform – one by one began to miss the tax – sad band of Maihar band, evening The faintness of the feet, the throbbing feet on the stage, the beat of the drums, the satisfaction of turning away from us while leaving the harvest, Baba’s grave, Shubha’s sweet voice – all left behind we were going back to Allahabad.

Narendra was sitting next to me looking out the window. Mazhar was left behind. I was nine years old then. At this height, my clothes were fluttering in the strong wind. This phenomenon of childhood memories was seen in dreams far beyond the real world.

“Will you come here again?” Like someone whispered in my ear. I peeked out the window. The yellow rocky ground was running. I leaned my head up against the seat and shut my eyes. Darkness fell behind the eyes. There was the sky and the rustle of childhood. Somewhere deep down there was a forgotten melody. In the darkness, brown and gray rocks began to appear. It is as if the melody is beginning to take shape.



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