Oikyataan Re

Live @ Fireflies, Bangalore

Parvathy And I

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.

group dynamics

young old man

The man resides within the man
Inside a strong armour, cylinder shaped,
Made of the five elements, designed of eight lotuses.

The power of yoga is his ornament,
He resides in the muladhara;
He journeys upward, he lights all the seven lights
He illuminates the secret room within the man.
--Gopla Khapa

Narayan Chandra Adhikari is 74 years old. He has been practising the art of Baul even before my parents were born. And yet, he still sings with as much gusto, still stalks the stage like a panther and still dances, the sound of his Nupurs dogging his every step. Here he's playing a version of the dotara that hails from the Bangladesh border.

Madness, True and Fake

I couldn't find true madness,
So I didn't become mad;
I saw fake madness all over,
I couldn't find a real one.

Some are mad for wealth,
Some others for glory;
Some turn mad with poverty,
Some others for aesthetic forms.

Siva, the maddest of the mad,
He, the one Who drinks poison;
Rejects elixir,
Leaving a palace of gold,
Enjoys abode in a Shamshan.

----Author Unknown

Shyam Sunder Das Baul, ever so soaring on the Anandalahari, Ghunguru and vocals.

Sreekhol Sophistry

What splendid fruit
The upside down tree bears
That tree -
The roots touch the sky

From that tree
The fruit is ripe, but hangs
Sans stem,
Where many tender ones
Have fallen to rot

If that tree is cut
It lives
If not,
It dies...

- On a banyan tree by Sarat Baul


Bidut Rajbongshi on the Sreekhol

Spinnin' Around/ Post #100

Ruhaniyat

Their eyes were all faraway, moistened by the one love that they all share, the love for the divine. True to its beautiful meaning, this Ruhaniyat was without a doubt, 'that which satiates the soul'. On a chilly Bangalore evening I was lost among a few hundred people, lost in the words(which I wished and wished I understood better), lost in the notes and lost in the yearning that these folk musicians laid bare before us. Suddenly George Harrison's plaintive cry in My Sweet Lord seemed like a whimper (I still love the song though) in the face of the full blooded screams that emerged time and again from this stage. There was no caste here, religion was left in the lurch and mundane issues like power and money were scoffed at. All there was energy, in its purest form, emanating like a glow from some of the performers, enveloping you if you were sensitive enough. There were the page 3 folk down for a evening of the arts, eyes half closed, pretending to be lost in a trance but a closer look always revealed that their eyeballs kept moving straining to see who was watching them through the tiny gap in their eyelids.

Ruhaniyat made its first appearance in Bangalore this year, with an ecletic bunch. The show began as with Zikr-e-Rifayi by the Fakirs from Hyderabad, lending a truly mystical air amidst plumes of green lit smoke. Their frenetic beating of the duff in unison gave a solid rhythmic base to the powerful singing.

From the dunes of Rajasthan emerged the group of the evening led by a triumvirates of vocalists. The star, although he'd probably balk at the word was an animated gentleman called Kachra Khan. Apparently many of his older siblings had perished so his parents decided to name him something that wouldn't tempt the evil eye. His vocal chords were pretty much the opposite of his name, as he toyed with Rag Bhairavi among others, soaring, whispering and modulating dropping jaws and bringing palms together with every song. This was the only group that played twice, once in each half of the programme and deservedly so. Khan sahab was ably by a group of phenomenal musicians whose names I wish I remembered on a variety of instruments from the sarangi to an energetic guy on castanets. They sang in a mixture of Sindhi, Punjabi and Multani.


The soul stirring award of the evening would have to go to Parvati Baul. Armed with nothing but an ektara and her voice she drove us to the point of tears as she herself let water flow out of her eyes rivetted skywards. If only our Indian rock bands had one thousandth the feeling that this lady poured out.


Of were two Qawwali groups the one led by Iqbal Banda Nawazi wasn't bad but was completely outshone by the obviously experienced Chisti Brothers group led by the approaching-Nusrat vocals of Sarfaraz Chisti. The vocal jugalbandhi that ensued between him and the supporting vocalists sent a round of shivers through the audience. Its incredible how something can be so complex and so effortless all while expressing the simplest emotions. Astounding.

Zikr-e-Rifayi marked a change in tempo and intensity, preferring the soothing sounds of the Jikir Jari compositions of Azan Peer, a 16th century Sufi saint of Assam. Like an Assamese mist, the group led by Hafiza Begum wafted over us.


I have often heard Buddhist chants especially those by Lama Tashi, Principle Chant Master for the Dalai Lama but those were all CDs. I didn't anticipate the tremendous energy that six monks could generate. Conjuring sounds from deep within their gut they literally threw me from my front row seat every time a crescendo or sudden surge came about. They apparently practice near Jog falls competing in the volume department with the falling water, straining their throats constantly. The resultant effect is supposed to generate immense positive energy. Damn right it did. I felt it in my bones.

I still feel the entire show in depths of my soul and the cockles of my heart. I want to hold on to what I felt there forever or atleast carry a little part of it wherever I may roam. I thank them all.

THE REST OF THE RUHANIYAT PICS