The Sixth String of Vilayat Khan

by Namita Devidayal

He heard the drone of the tanpura, the earthing in his life. He saw the grand old men and women of music float past, and touched their feet one by one while humming their music. He was in Calcutta, inside a stilt house with the Hooghly flowing just outside his window, and the boatman’s song wafted high into the sky like a sweet lament. He recognised the familiar comforting scent of his wife. He felt Shujaat’s lips kissing his hand. He heard Hidayat’s soft voice. He heard himself say, look after each other. Now he was driving around Shimla and his car floated high above the pine trees. He yearned for something but didn’t know what. He heard a voice say ‘bhaiya’ and felt someone touching his feet lightly. He was running up the dark stairs of a rickety building and he could hear the first call to prayer in raga Bilaskhani Todi and he saw green minarets pierce the blue sky; the scene turned into a palace in Afghanistan and he was facing majestic snow mountains in the distance while a long alaap in raga Darbari made everything emerald green, and then suddenly it was Tilak Kamod in pink and white and blue, and he was laughing with dragonflies and ducks by a lake. Raga Megh, bold and beguiling, and a dark grey sky. He was walking hand in hand with Amir Khan on Marine Drive in the rain, allowing the waves to drench them, and they saw a blurry Ravi Shankar in the distance and waved at him, laughing joyously. He heard an Urdu poem about flowers and prayer. The music changed to Chand...