I'm crouching in a corner of a recording booth just about big enough for two people and an ektara. "Maybe I should sing," says the gentle, childlike voice of Parvathy Baul, "you'll get better shots that way." Even before words of gratitude took shape in my brain she had begun, not miming or half-heartedly for the camera but full blown, letting loose every iota of her vocal chords, releasing every atom of her heart, bearing her soul in song.
Blinking back instantaneous tears and listening to that little voice in my head telling me to close my gaping mouth and click, I shot away as the notes reverberated in that little booth and in my spirit. It felt all at once like a cool shower on a hot day, a warm blanket on a cold one and a glimpse, a tiny pinhole of a glimpse into the infinite.
From there on the conversations we would have were etched in the folds of my Grey matter and internalised a lot deeper. Parvathy Baul has a special soul and for a while that special soul held me, like the arms of a mother, warm, comforting, wordless. For a while that glowing smile made all existence seem insignificant. For a while I knew what it was like to be touched by beatitude.
For all those walks
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