The Sixth String of Vilayat Khan

by Namita Devidayal

‘I can’t play the way I used to. But if nothing else, please listen to my intention . . .’

Vilayat Khan came back to the stage and said to the audience, ‘I remember leaving you at gandhar, so I will play from there for you.’ He played alaap–jod–jhala for another forty-five minutes. After that he played a beautiful Bhairavi, the abiding love of his life. It was his last concert.

Like a child, Vilayat Khan quietly got up and went into his room. He was in his short-sleeved vest and pajamas. He faced the window which overlooked the Birla temple and played raga Gaur Sarang, for it was the middle of the afternoon. A soft, cool breeze blew in. It was the last week of February and Calcutta was just wrapping up its winter. Everyone was sitting behind him, listening, but he was oblivious to their presence. That was the last time he touched his sitar.

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...

floating high above. He heard raga Basant. Below, through a molten yellow haze, he could see a young boy with a small sitar sitting between a woman with big silver anklets on her feet and a man with long, curly locks, holding a baby on his lap. He ran across the triangular courtyard of the house into the garden at the back. He heard someone lovingly say, Miyan, one day you will be great . . . He saw raga Bhairavi floating towards him, in blue and gold, and he heard soft, tinkling laughter. Suddenly, the scale changed. The music grew louder and more thunderously beautiful and finally became deafening as it slowly slipped over him like an invisible comforter. Then there was silence.