A daughter remembers

People in our grandparents' generation didn't share our obsession with recording the time of events. Probably they were more concerned with using it well, apart from the logistical difficulties of documentation or challenges like illiteracy. Approximations were good enough for them, as it was for Bela Rani Haldar who had told her daughter, Kavita, now forty, that she had got married to Abhiram Haldar around the age of seven. Kavita works in the city as house help but her mother's 'job' was in the village. Bela's spouse had a government job but the childhood playmates enjoyed working on the fields together, after he would come back from work in the evening, or around 3 or 4 in the morning, before he left for office.

Bela's job wasn't restricted to working in the house and the fields. Today women in villages manage the house, the fields and the cattle but the decision-making power usually remains with the man. Bela was the business manager who assigned duties to all the other members of the household and they, in turn, had to report to her. For as long as Abhiram lived, they took the decisions together and after his death it was Bela alone. Her daughter-in-law had the primary responsibility of cooking but as there was a lot of work to do Bela did help with milking the cows, giving them fodder and sweeping the courtyard. After the work in the fields was done, she would weigh and give vegetables to her son to sell. In the village, word got around if someone wanted to sell or buy something and you just went to the person's house and completed the transaction. Or they would come to you if they got to know you were looking to sell something.

Apart from the produce of the fields, she would sell milk, cows and also bamboo, selling this last item every year around Dussehra, so new clothes could be bought for the family. People would buy them to do collective fishing, by putting all the poles in water and then cast nets to catch the fish. There was also a big boat in the Haldar house which was let out all the year round. Bela would keep the money earned from it for the Mansa Devi pooja. It would be a big occasion and a feast would be thrown by the Haldars for the entire village. Bela Rani was in charge of all the money earned by the household.

When she got time from work, she would invite neighbours home and have tea with them. If she got to know of someone doing a pooja in their house, she would go and attend. If there was news of a death in the neighbourhood, she would spend a few hours there. She would also spend part of her time at home doing pooja.

After her daughter got married, her sons continued to live with her. But when her spouse died and as Bela entered old age, things changed. She could no longer work in the fields for too long. Still she was the one managing them. For what she could not do alone she would hire labourers and supervise them. Then she came back late at night and cooked for everyone. No amount of scolding from her would induce the sons to take charge. At times she would get so frustrated that she would leave without informing them and reach her daughter Kavita's house in Delhi. Kavita was allowed to tell her sister about this but not her brothers. In about ten days, the brothers would come looking for her. With much reluctance, Bela would return because she did not want her sons to create a scene or abuse the son-in-law who had always treated her well.

Kavita's daughter and Bela's nineteen-year-old granddaughter Deepika, adds, "Not because they had been missing her but because they were afraid that if Dida [maternal grandmother] stayed here we would get all her property." Deepika spent her childhood with her grandmother and was her pet. "My grandparents had toiled hard and left so much behind. If my uncles had any sense, they could have made much of it."

Two years ago, on the twelfth death anniversary of her spouse, Bela said that she was not feeling well. She had fasted for two days before that to perform some rites for her decesaed partner. In a while she passed away quietly, when she was a little over seventy.

As it happened, her sons' concerns over the property going to their sister had been in vain because Bela did not leave it to anyone. Kavita remembers that Bela, who never discriminated against her daughters, used to say it would have been better if instead of five sons and two daughters, she had had seven daughters, for with them you can have peace.

 

In Obitopedia, 12 Sep 2015.

My friend Vasu

Vasu with his grandson, Rahul

In February 2010, sitting next to me during tea time in Tilonia village, Rajasthan, where he lived and worked as a member of the Social Work Research Centre, Vasu smirked, "Most people here are scared of me, you know." As a hobbyist who challenges smugness, I was quick in dismissing his claim,"Oh, please. That's not going to work on me." With his towering frame, longish, grey hair and gruff exterior, 'Vasu Baba' did seem capable of swallowing some pestering woodpecker alive when he knitted his brows. But we also resort to issuing disclaimers about ourselves as part of our vulnerability. His warning probably meant that he couldn't be bothered with, as Wodehouse put it, 'ordering his behaviour according to the accepted rules of civilised intercourse'. But that didn't change the fact that he was a captivating conversationalist. I could listen to him at length and not get bored. After this first tea-table talk we had, I was flattered that he decided I was a 'match' and could be allowed entry into the friend zone.

It is only when writing this now that I realise our mail exchanges were curiously in polite, correct Hindi, though when we met we mostly talked in English. Maybe it was the language of Tilonia that had percolated in our correspondence, since that was where our friendship began and that is where we would meet. We had met during the Lok Utsav, a festival of traditional Rajasthani music, organised by the SWRC. And music remained a constant motif between us. A guitarist in his youth, he was into a variety of music. I would send him the latest Hindi film songs that showed some innovation in music and lyrics; he introduced me to Alexi Murdoch's 'Orange Sky'.

Whenever Rajasthan went through dry spells, concerned for his Tilonia family in particular and for the state in general, he used to ask me to send clouds. I would go through a speedy, willing suspension of disbelief and convenient resurrection of belief to fervently add my prayers to his wish. A remarkable number of times, it worked. We would share solidarity when we would be sick and working, when I would be editing and he would be writing funding proposals for the organisation, and make plans about when we would meet next. Though he wasn't usually supposed to travel and exert himself, during one of his better days he came to Delhi and stayed at my place. Another friend had come over, but Vasu, naturally, was the life of the party, revelling in the conversations and jubilant that he had finally been able to visit the city after so long. Though he was the one living in a village, he was aware of national and international developments better than many of us were. He would draw for us significant connections between these happenings. I was once editing a dull, academic book on the Sri Lankan political history. When he heard about it, he said he doesn't know much about the issue but what he did think was . . . And thus he managed to make me take a more active interest in the book. His pro-poor stand was clear as he challenged Adam Smith:

The Market…

is it that bad?

well, Adam Smith thought that all nations were wealthy 

but poor guy, he forgot to fly to Bangladesh 

‘Cos if he did 

would have got the Nobel Prize 

for self-help groups 

making self-help nations 

I turned to his consistent friendship during ups and downs in personal relationships. I wouldn't share details and he wouldn't poke and prod. But without saying anything he would reassure through his mere presence. He had that kind of immaculate grace. Indignities disturbed and saddened him. For a free spirit like him it was difficult to be restricted to one place because of being unwell and he would often grow irritable, and later guilty. Worried about something he felt he shouldn't have said to a couple of people, on World Forgiveness Day (until then I didn't know one existed), he wrote to many of us asking for forgiveness for anything hurtful he might have done or said. On days when I was struggling not to get sucked into a quagmire of editorial work, he would patiently enquire after me without feeling offended that I couldn't reply to his last two mails. As we grow older, we all know how valuable someone like that is, who would regularly check to see if all's fine with your world. Yet he always talked of being grateful for the people in his life: his Tilonia family; his daughter, son-in-law and grandson; the friends he made while working with SWRC and his JDs (judwaan dost, or twin friends, who, he said, were like his own extended self), of which I was proud to be one. He would say that as JDs even when we weren't talking we were connected by ESP (extra-sensory perception).

In his friendship he was characterised by absolute generosity of heart. Soon after our first meeting, I had joined a new workplace and was still getting to know my colleagues. Vasu made the job smooth for me by sending a packet of balushahis to my office, distributing which I said my hello to all the staff members and found my driving trainer, who was also to become a great friend later. Since the person from Rajasthan who had come with the sweets was wearing a turban, many in office assumed I was from that state, and in a way I was too. Vasu had also remembered to send some chai masala, because I was a fan of the tea I had at his place. He was a special common bond between me and my partner, who shared with Vasu his interest in music and cricket, and memories of an angsty youth.

One of my teachers had rightly talked about how it is easier to give solace to someone in sorrow but tougher to share their happiness, to feel it for yourself. Vasu had the knack and I sorely miss sharing my happy days with him. When someone goes, there are always thoughts of how you could have spent more time with them. But like Vasu I guess I should always count my blessings and remember how fortunate I was in having known him, as my Bollywood-ish mind imagines him strumming under the orange sky. When I recently spoke to his daughter Shruthi, she shared this feeling of being exceptionally lucky to have been a part of his life, "He taught me how to be accepting of all people and circumstances and this has been the most valuable lesson I have ever been taught."

On one of his birthdays, I made him a blog and he wrote over a hundred existential, dark, lyrical, witty posts on barefootrambles.blogspot.in. These are some lines from his poem 'Snapscapes':

Sepia prints memories mutations . . .

Trillions of bubbles in the air

Was it your breath that you blew?

No commotion, softly she comes

The harbinger of all that you dreamt

Daylight beckons, starshine travels . . .

Picture perfect reams of scenarios

Captured snapscapes.

When I type Vasu's name, auto-correct tells me to change it to 'vast'. For a change, auto-correct is not entirely off the mark.

In Obitopedia, 28 Aug 2015. 

Collaboration

We had memorised,

'Love does not consist in gazing at each other

But

In looking outward together in the same direction.'

So we did.

And our glance came to rest upon a tree.

He was soothed by the leaves;

I was drawn by the roots.

First published in The Knicknackery, 6 Aug 2014.

Songs from the Ghat

A story of extraordinary genius, of a penchant for the creation of beautiful art, can emerge from the smallest of towns to the most globalised of cities. This, then, is the story of Banaras, of women like Siddheshwari Devi, Rasoolan Bai and Girija Devi, who have proved with their exceptional talent and hard work that their mettle was stronger than any odds against them whatsoever, than even the taboos placed upon women singing publicly. They are part of a venerable tradition which has fostered some of our civilization’s most outstanding musicians. The older among them are no more. And many have moved to bigger cities for exploration beyond the borders of their hometown. However, to understand the contemporary music scene in the ancient city, I decided to talk to those who have chosen to stay back and work here, who feel that their lives are so intertwined with that of the city that they cannot imagine being elsewhere. This is their story.

Sprouting new leaves, rooted in the old

As I step onto Banaras soil, I am keen on documenting women as always and meet the vocalist Sucharita Gupta, who learnt from Savita Devi, who, in turn had none other than the accomplaished Siddheshwari Devi as her guru. Her house is teeming with girls of all ages, mostly students from primary school to college, sitting on dhurries. A sincere looking seven-year-old, probably the youngest apprentice there, with Soframycin and talcum powder on newly pierced ears is about to sing. There is a sprinkling of boys waiting around the place too. 

Sucharita Gupta

The veteran singer from Assam – a previous generation would associate her with their more favoured taste and preferences in music – recalls her journey. 'In my family if you were a woman you weren't allowed to sing, except when you presented bhajans to Gopala. My grandmother had made that clear to me. On the other hand, despite being a  businessman, my father was a classical singer. He also happened to be the secretary of my school. Once, after my grandmother had passed away, I secretly participated in a singing competition and won. When it was time to give away the prizes, the school secretary was invited onstage. Scared that I'd have to face my father, I refused to go to accept my prize, till my friends made me go. When I reached home, he just said, "Ustadji will come tomorrow to give your lessons."'

Another turning point for Sucharita Gupta was having witnessed the recital of Savita Devi, a stalwart of her time. 'After the performance I walked up to her and said I would learn from her. She said, "I live in Delhi." I answered, "I'll come." "Where will you live?" she asked. I easily responded, "I'll live with you," and that was it. I went with her and she gave me a lot of affection. I was not more than 13 or 14. If I woke up at night she would put me to sleep and then at 4 in the morning she would do her riyaz. I would make tea for her and eat after she had eaten. When my daughter got married recently, she came and stayed by my side, as my mother would have done.'

She talks about her reverence towards music, 'When Tansen would sing Raga Malhar, it would bring in the rains. We strive for similar excellence. Once we went to sing in a programme organised during the monsoon; our choice was Raga Desh. The same day at 2 in the morning we were thrilled to hear the peacocks' hypnotic calls, as if in response.'

'We have songs for all the sixteen samskaras of life, each event from birth to death. Whenever parts of our classical songs feature in Hindi films, the song is a huge hit, like "Aaoge jab tum o sajna". Sadly, some of us in the older generation have made the education of classical music intimidating. We should keep it accessible for whosoever wants to learn.' Her appreciation is not limted to classical music. 'Folk music is equally important. A student once told me how she listens to her grandmother sing, notes it down and then sings the songs on the radio. Children who haven't even started speaking properly would sing bits and pieces because they would have heard their mothers sing.'

I had noticed upon entering the house all the students touched their guru's feet. An older student, probably in college, was helping with the younger students and also making tea for the guests. Gupta shares her opinion on the guru-shishya tradition. 'Earlier a student considered the guru a parent – a Guru Ma, the teacher mother. Both would cook together and live in the same place. Now this has been replaced by a monetary relationship. Schools and colleges are not the same any more. But the fact remains that if students spend time with teachers listening to them do riyaz and follow the guru's conduct they would pick up even faster. They become an extension of the family. My daughter recently got married and all the arrangements were done so smoothly because my students were running around as if the wedding had been in their own family. Students even participated in the sangeet and people were so happy to listen to and recollect their traditional songs.'

She stops to ask some girls who are leaving about how they would go. After confirming that their guardians have come to pick them up, she turns to answer my question about the role of music in the current sociopolitical climate where so many incidents of communal violence have been reported, including in UP. 'Art has no caste or religion. Bismillah Khan did his riyaz in a temple, Allauddin Khan was a follower of the goddess Kali. Music has always brought people together. It is the politicians who hire goons to riot. Music is therapy that heals. When the Kargil war was on, a music concert was organised for the martyrs. The audience was so moved that they were willing to take off their jewellery as contribution to the cause. If there are students who are aggressive and they start learning music, they gradually become serene.' 

Sucharita Gupta runs special classes for women who love music but could not pursue it after marriage. 'I once went to a college where I was asked to sing a kajri, "Kaise khele jebu sawan mein kajaria." I asked the women to sing with me but they were unfamiliar with the song. It really saddened me to see that living in Banaras they didn't know of a song so popular here. It was then that I decided to teach the traditional songs to these women.' 

I go to one such class where about 15 women have assembled in a ground floor room in an apartment. Gupta concedes that women have many 'duties' at home so rules are relaxed here. I ask the students how they manage to spare even this amount of time when they have so much housework to do. A woman in her fifties responds, "We grab time by the neck and pull it out." They break to sing a love song, reading the lyrics from covered notebooks, yearly diaries and loose sheets. Even before I can start paying attention to the lyrics, the gentle tone of their collective voice soothes. Later I think that this is what some would call a motley crew of singers, even amateur, but they sound exactly what they are, trained singers, no matter how early an stage they might be at in the training.

Together they sing

These classes have been going on for four years. Earlier they were held twice a week but now it's mostly once because not all women could come twice and then they would miss out on the course. 'But we even come on all seven days if we have a programme coming,' the students share. At present they are rehearsing to sing in the festival Subah-e-Banaras. They have performed on radio too and to keep more and more people interested in music, on one occasion they sang popular old Hindi film songs in the Banaras club, which were widely appreciated. 

A retired schoolteacher talks of how she always wanted to learn music. 'This is not just work but pleasure for us.' Students intimidated by other teachers come to Gupta. 'I had never learnt classical but she teaches so simply. She taught us to enjoy it. The oldest student in the class is 75 and no less enthusiastic. 

Gupta also makes it a point to teach them festival and folk songs. 'I keep encouraging them to learn further. I would like to send them for radio auditions and hope those who wok hard and do well also get bigger platforms to perform.' A young woman recalls how she had almost given up because she couldn't manage to come to class with housework and her job. But Gupta kept saying that even if she comes once a year she should come. This motivated the student to keep coming. 

Not distracted by all the praise heaped on her by the pupils, Gupta proceeds to test them on theory, and most of her questions get answered. One woman says, 'This is a restoration of our childhood.' Gupta quips, 'Yes, and when they sneak guavas in the classroom and eat them on the backbenches or chit-chat they also get scolded like schoolgirls.'

About whether there is any apprehension in their homes regarding women going to learn music, they say people have been supportive. The youngest woman remembers that it was her father-in-law who inspired her to go. Maybe given Banaras's culture of music in every ghat and gully, people are more understanding and welcoming of it. Yet at times it seems the women also keep the two worlds separate and are not comfortable with practising at home. 'It is embarrassing if a guest comes and finds you sitting with the harmonium. Some of our kids complain of getting disturbed'. Another laughs nervously, 'Once my son heard me practise and later told me he thought it was some beggar on the streets.' One of her classmates is quick to take umbrage on her behalf and says she would give the son a piece of her mind. 

Morning Raga

At 5.45 the next morning I am at Assi Ghat, when and where I am told I would be able to witness Subah-e-Banaras, a 200-day programme organised by the state government. Each morning a group of artists perform at the ghat, followed by a yoga session. The programme has not yet begun so I shift my attention to the aarti preparations. Similarly clad priests and their similar looking pooja 'desks' with the flowers and aarti plates stand in a line at equal distance to each other. I cannot help thinking of a perfectly set stage for a performance. An announcement is made so people wishing to offer aarti can go down the steps and assemble the material needed for the ritual. In unison the aarti begins and right after it ends the singers on the stage start singing. 

Preparations for the morning aarti

Any crude attempt at categorisation fails as one looks at the diverse age and class groups sitting on the chairs and dhurries. Unlike many concerts where the audience may get distracted or seem detached, the audience here bears an air of gravitas, with reverence towards the performance and the performers. Some have brought mats from home that they would use later for the yoga. As soon as the programme ends, without any awkward gaps, the temple bell rings. 

I have been intrigued by the tabla accompanist who is a woman, still not a very common sight. Priya Tiwari is pursuing her PhD with the help of a government fellowship. Her own thesis is also on women players of tabla and pakhawaj. There are also other girls in college, she says, who are learning to play the instrument. In her opinion one reason for keeping women away is their thinking that playing the tabla makes women's hands hard. She says that this is a myth and that actually soft hands play better music. 

Resuscitation

Fateh Ali, Bismillah Khan's grandson, was seven when he started playing the shehnai. 'It is a pity that shehnai is not a part of the taught course in colleges, which is why today there are not many shehnai students. Although the government was open to the idea of adding it to the curriculum, artists, earlier not keen on the academic world, didn’t help the initiative much. Now again we are trying. Sarangi is another instrument that is slowing moving towards the “endangered” category. Both the instruments and the related arts need to be preserved.'

Fateh Ali Khan

His great grandfather was the first in the family to have started playing the shehnai. 'Earlier they were played only during weddings but my family changed that.' Relating his grandfather Bismillah Khan's story, he says, 'His name was Kamruddin. But as he was the youngest in the family, he would always take permission of the older brothers before playing. They would express their assent in the word "Bismillah", indicating he should begin. And thus he became Bismillah Khan.' 

All his brothers specialised in some instrument or the other but Bismillah could play them all. 'As kids we would sit with Dada Saab and he would work with each of us. He would say, “Sing so that even a rickshaw-wallah is moved to turn his head and see who is singing.”' Many players still feel nervous performing on stage. Since we have the advantage of having seen players in the family at close quarters, we don't have that fear.

'[Bismillah] Khan Saab never declared that one or the other of us would do well. He always said, “Jo karega woh payega” (the one who works shall get). Somehow this stayed with me. I felt like I had to do something. In winters I would be up early, practising with the quilt around me. If practice dwindled, my brothers and sisters would remind me to do it. My mother would teach that no matter how modest the sum a person must earn their own living. 

'Shehnai is the only instrument to be able to act like all others. Our family mixes three gharanas (three generations make a gharana): Banaras, Kirana, Gwalior. We can play so traces of each can be heard, a skill possessed only by Banarasi people. We used to keep a mirror in front to check how we would appear on stage. Presentation mattered. We were sent out to learn from other gurus too and include that in our work. In the same family, different players have different individual styles.

'In those days the student-teacher relationship was something else. We used to sit in the room where our guru would sit. But we didn't sit next to him. We would prepare tea for him. Then we started riyaz. Now students come, pay Rs 1000 for an hour and go. Music is a form of worship but some of these students don't even bother taking a bath. If we are not cultured, we cannot learn music. They go together. When someone calls himself a guru's disciple, what of the guru's does he imbibe?'

Does music help in eradicating socio-religious-economic differences? The shehnai player says, 'Definitely music is an equaliser. We have gurus of all religions. We bow our head everywhere. On the ghats, there used to be a blind man whose voice was so miraculous that even Pandit Jasraj praised him. You will find music in every gully here.'

An academic and a performer

R.P. Shastri, the ex-dean of Banaras Hindu University, is also a violinist. 'Banaras saw traditional learning where each temple had huge programmes that would beat any conference. Each temple was maintained like a cultural centre. Those who learnt elsewhere also presented here. Gayan (singing), vadan (playing instruments), nritya (dance) – Kashi houses all three.

R.P. Shastri

'It was Madan Mohan Malviya's dream that BHU should be a centre for learning with knowledge from both the East and the West. Along with the university, he also wanted to set up an academy of music. In 1950 the College of Music and Fine Arts was established and Omkarnath Thakur designed the course in keeping with contemporary times.

Shastri emanates the vibes of an ethnomusicologist when he talks about the peculiar relationship between the city, its people, and its music – a tripartite structure of divine measure. 'The ghats of Banaras are host to musical programmes, and earlier there was chamber music too. The listeners are a match to the artists. Whether it is someone from the West or from neighbouring Pakistan, the artists are happy to find learned and passionate audience. Once when Pandit Ravi Shankar had a programme, despite a steady downpour the audience stayed put. Pandit ji remarked that not just the people but the animals of Banaras are also music aficionados. Artists used to say that they have to pass the Kashi test, win the hearts of the audience here, to be able to prove their worth. It is not that the audience has any training. But they have developed a keen ear from regular exposure to fine music. 

'You can also hear Carnatic music played here, and many others. Ghats are called mini India as people from different states have settled around specific ghats and their music has also become a part of Banaras.

Discussing how media can disseminate music, he says, 'Apart from live performances, during my youth radio used to be the biggest medium. I didn't have one and would cycle for four to six kilometres to listen to someone else's radio. Nowadays despite so many TV channels DD Bharti is the only one giving space to real music. People in the south of India are more conscious about preserving their culture. Their channels play their own music.'

On what accounts for excellence in an artist, he says, 'The one who suffers will be the biggest artist. In abhaav (lack),bhaav (feeling) is born. Look at Abdul Karim Khan. He rose despite being from a poor family. After struggling and making his own mark, he encouraged others as well and mentored talented students without worrying about their background.' 

Alauddin Khan, who played twenty-two instruments, was another example of dogged will. Shastri resumes, 'The older artists didn't focus on clothes like the present generation does. Though there is no dearth of music, the quality often gets compromised now. To think there was a time when the audience used to stay during the overnight programme and tell people that for food and drinks they would be ordering music,' he ends with a smile.

Reviews and Returns

Rajeshwar Acharya was a student of BHU and the head of performing arts in Gorakhpur University. They say he is the go-to man if you have the heart to hear brutal critiques and honest admissions. When he learns of my assignment, he talks of the reporters who would go to a concert and 'rate' it as “astounding” and “inspired a big round of applause”. 'Cultural journalism is lost except for a few comments.' 

Rajeshwar Acharya

Then he turns his attention to his favourite subject – music. 'In the beginning one didn't have the option of pursuing a bachelor's degree in music. 'People would ask, "Why do you want to take up music if you don't have any physical disability?" If someone with a PhD in music would use the "Dr" in their name, they would be asked if they dealt in homoeopathy.' The faculty in universities would talk dismissively of music when Acharya became a music teacher. 'I said I can prove that performance is everywhere and in trying to enrich the academics, I moved away from performance.' He laments the lack of analysis and critique in the discipline of music. 'My own students have done my critique in excellent ways. But people just want praise.

'We teach our students how to identify flaws in a musical piece. Yet people who would have these inconsistencies in their performance are getting national awards. How is this happening? Success in music is being measured by what has never been an element of music – competition and prizes. Those who have sold their music will get obliterated. Getting awards is no big deal if you cannot move a layperson with your work. What good is your Olympic gold if you can't help an old man with his load?' 

Coming back to these patrons of the arts who belong to the masses, he pronounces with approval that the city cares about being meaningful. 'Even a common person can tell whether a piece “touched his heart” or  “felt like his mother's greeting”. This prevalence of music in the most humble of households should not be underestimated. What women sung in their homes was later picked up by Siddheshwari Devi. When toothless old men sing and express their joy in the process, it becomes infectious and gladdens other hearts. You won't find these genuine art appreciators or practitioners too dressed up. In Banaras you find genius mathematicians and musicians in lungis. At times people who would come to meet me would look me up and down and ask me if I am Rajeshwar Acharya. I would say, “Ji haan. Main hi hoon. Aap mujhse milne aaye hain ya mere kapdon se?” (Yes, I am the one. Have you come to meet me or my clothes?)

'True music will pierce your soul. I have had conversations with so many people of all classes in Banaras. There is no inequality in these groups. We are all friends today. Banaras is the place where you can become a “pundit” regardless of your caste or class. Meera worships Ravidas here. The caste that gets oppressed all over finds relief here.'

The inevitable question of making a living through the arts arises and he replies, 'I am not saying music shouldn't be able to feed you. But you cannot cheapen and commercialise what is food for your soul.'

Music, whenever, wherever

'In Banaras we don't need an excuse for musical performances.' Lalit Kumar, tabla accompanist, has been teaching in the Mahila Mahavidyalaya of BHU and also accompanying several artists. 'Apart from the bigger festivals, there are baithaks in Banaras. They are done for 50-60 people in small halls or houses. Budwamangal, the Tuesday after the festival of Holi, is also celebrated. It is done to say goodbye to the old (budwa) year and also to create a space for old people to celebrate Holi. Another occasion is Gulabari. Rose petals mixed with water are strewn on people. Thandai is served with paan and kaju burfi, and the programme continues through the night. 

'If you want to come and enjoy the music of Banaras there are so many festivals lined up: Sankat Mochan, Dev Deepavali, Ganga Mahotsav . .  . Assi and Dashawamedh ghats are specially favoured for the open air programmes.'

This is the extent to which the music is seeped into the breath of this city – it does not belong to one or another but rather it is of Banaras, of Banarasis, musicians and non-musicians alike.

The objective eye 

Though not a musician himself, author Kashinath Singh's books would give the reader a perfect vision of Banaras. He has lived in the city and lived the city. So it seems fitting to know about his take on the music Banaras offers. He begins, 'When we were young, the author Agyeya would bring out the paper Dinman. We got to know of Pandit Jasraj through that. 

Kashinath Singh and Lalit Kumar (L to R)

'Music has always cut across religions. Sa re ga ma is the same for everyone. After the 2006 bomb blast in Sankat Mochan temple, where the Sankat Mochan music festival is held each year,  Muslim artists also started coming there. Artists from all religions played there and together appealed for peace.

He too had something to add about the preservation of Banaras’s rich musical heritage, 'New talent would continue to arise. But earlier if your guru tied a ganda  (amulet) on you, it would mean you dedicate your entire life to your art form. Now we don't know how many people are devoted to music and how many are learning only to teach foreigners. I understand that one has to struggle to maintain their dignity and eke out a living. Let's see how we can do this gracefully.'

Once a Banarasi . . .

Wistful that I couldn't spend more time in the city and soak up all the music I had to offer, I board the train for my return journey. But Banaras is not done with me. An employee of HP travelling in the same compartment, Sudarshan Mishra, strikes up a conversation. 'I make it a point to go either to Ganga Mahotsav or Sankat Mochan festival or to any that I can go to. Of course in school the RIMPA festival used to be the big attraction. The fest would host the prominent classical music celebrities of that time. We couldn't afford even the cheapest tickets so we would try to scale the wall. I miss Banaras and its music.' He sighs, sharing a vivid memory of the muharram procession when Bismillah Khan would walk playing his shehnai and listeners, regardless of their religion, would be eagerly jostling on the sides of the road.'

I could in a way relate to his nostalgia. The echoes of the instruments, the nuanced voices of the singers in Banaras seem to give the setting for a time preserved in memory. Music is not hurried in Banaras. It takes its time. And in that time it permeates the air and your ear with its notes so that even when you wake up the next morning , you can feel the self being strummed upon. 

A lone boat at the ghat

First published in The Equator Line, Jul-Sep 2015.

How to Get Married Without an Aadhaar Number

From the time of its inception, in the year 2009, a key question at the centre of the Unique Identification (UID) project has been whether the 12-digit Aadhaar number can be made mandatory, and whether people can be denied services for not having one.

The judiciary has ruled unambiguously on the question. On 23 September 2013, the Supreme Court, in response to a writ petition filed by the former judge KS Puttaswamy, challenging the government’s mission of universal Aadhaar enrolment, and of linking various benefit schemes to the programme, ruled that “no person should suffer for not getting the Aadhaar card,” despite the fact that some authorities had issued circulars making it mandatory. On 24 March 2014, in another case, it ruled that the biometrics collected for Aadhaar are to be confidential, and, additionally, that “no person shall be deprived of any service for want of Aadhaar number ... All the authorities are directed to modify their forms/circulars/likes so as to not compulsorily require the Aadhaar number...”

One might presume that two clear rulings from the highest court of the land would suffice to lay down the law across the country. And yet, when we—the writers of this piece—reached the office of an additional district magistrate (ADM) in Delhi on the morning of 20 February 2015 to submit our marriage application under the Special Marriages Act of 1954, we were ordered to provide our Aadhaar numbers. “Without Aadhaar, we cannot process your application,” the ADM’s assistant said.

We pointed out that such a requirement was not mentioned anywhere in the law. The assistant responded that he could not help us, since the software in which he had to key in the information to register our application would not allow him to proceed unless an Aadhaar number was keyed in first.

This was in clear violation of the Supreme Court notice of 2014, which directed all authorities to modify their “forms/circulars/likes so as to not compulsorily require the Aadhaar number.” Laws, it seemed, can lose all power as they percolate through many layers of government before they reach the average citizen.

Neither of us had enrolled for Aadhaar, but the office staff informed us that if we did so immediately, our enrolment numbers would suffice to process the application. Though exasperated, we were keen on getting married soon and so chose to enrol, deciding that we would take up the fight later.

Our experience at the enrolment centre further strengthened our impression that the average citizen is arm-twisted into falling into step with the requirements of the Aadhaar programme. For starters, we were charged Rs 100 each by the enrolment centre, when in fact, the procedure is supposed to be free. We also found that the application form asked users whether we granted consent for the information to be shared (without specifying what information would be shared, with whom, and for which purpose). Neither of us wanted to consent to any such thing, but when we received a slip acknowledging our enrolment, it showed that we had in fact given consent. When we asked the person who was enrolling us about this, his response was the same as the person at the ADM’s office—that the software would not allow him to enrol us unless he indicated that we consented to share our information.

We had resigned ourselves to being bulldozed into doing the government’s bidding when, later that day, we had the good fortune of meeting the activist and scholar Usha Ramanathan, who has been opposing what she sees as the flagrant wrongs of the Aadhaar project. When Ramanathan offered to accompany us to the ADM’s office to argue our case, we gladly accepted.

Three days later, we returned to the office to argue our case with the staff. In the course of our discussion, we offered the staff a solution that we thought might circumvent the software’s hiccups: that they key in random characters in the box for the Aadhaar number. The assistant smiled at us indulgently and said that he had tried it all. He then asked us to meet the ADM himself and sort out the matter.

The ADM, who, as it turned out, was a polite and patient man, explained to us that as a government officer, he was caught in this matter between obeying the orders of the judiciary and those of the executive. While the former ostensibly lays down the rule of law, it can only be put in operation, and thus trickle down to the layperson, by the executive. After the Supreme Court orders, the ADM said, the Revenue Department of Delhi should have sent around directions to operationalise the court’s order. It had not done this. Therefore, he had to follow the existing system, which mandated the use of Aadhaar. With the executive ignoring the judiciary’s rulings, the law remained a theoretical truth. The ADM suggested that to pursue the matter, we take up the matter at the Department of Revenue.

The Department of Revenue, which handles “issues of various statutory documents,” including marriage certificates, had issued a circular in December 2012 stating that the Aadhaar platform would be used for many of their services. “Hence, it is considered necessary that the Aadhaar information of the applicants seeking the various certificates from the Revenue Department is to be given in the Application Forms itself,” the circular stated. (The certificates listed included the SC/ST certificate, OBC certificate, domicile certificate, income certificate and others, but, curiously, the marriage certificate is not mentioned in the list.)

At the office, we were directed to another official, a sub-divisional magistrate (SDM) who handled Aadhaar-related matters. If the ADM had been polite, and unhelpful only because he did not know how to help, this SDM was pointedly rude. We waited outside his door for about half an hour without being shown in. Finally, we intercepted him when he stepped outside the office on his way elsewhere. “Who sent you here?” he asked, looking at us suspiciously. We told him why we were there. “It cannot be done without Aadhaar,” he scoffed. We pointed out that such a requirement was against court orders. “Go file a contempt petition then,” he said, before storming off.

As we waited there, determined to take him up on his challenge, we received a call from the ADM’s staff, asking us to come back because they had figured out a way around the problem. Back at the office, the ADM told us that he had spoken to the legal department, the legal cell and some other ADMs in other jurisdictions. All this legal consultation yielded the following advice, which we had already suggested: if we were determined to register our marriage without the Aadhaar, all they had to do was key in dots instead of digits in the box provided.

They proceeded to do this, and our application went through successfully. After this was done, the ADM struck up a conversation with us to find out why we were so set against the Aadhaar project. We explained our various concerns, ranging from privacy issues to the sheer inefficacy of the system. “Actually I haven’t enrolled myself either,” the ADM said. “My wife complains that I am enrolling the whole world but not our family.” He added, “I’m not fully convinced of its benefits.”

Ahead of the wedding date, we discovered another potential roadblock. Subsequent to our previous rounds of the offices, the Revenue Department had issued a follow-up circular. Absurdly, the circular attempted to fulfil the SC’s stipulation that no one should be denied any service for want of an Aadhaar number, by ordering that anyone without an Aadhaar should be taken to be enrolled at the nearest centre so that they could then provide the enrolment number. The fact that this was still a form of coerced enrolment seemed to escape the authorities completely.

By happy coincidence, a hearing in the Supreme Court on Justice Puttaswamy’s writ petition—during the earlier hearing of which the initial order in 2013 was issued—was scheduled for 16 March. With the new circular in hand, Ramanathan went to meet the lawyer in the case, Gopal Subramaniam, to apprise him of the developments in the lower rungs of the government.

Six days later, at the hearing, Subramaniam began by pointing out that there was widespread violation of the court’s order against mandatory Aadhaar. A lawyer who was present told us that he cited our example: two people seeking to get married who were turned away for not having enrolled. Justice Chelameshwar, who was heading the special bench constituted for the matter, asked whether it was an arranged marriage or a love marriage. “Special marriage,” Subramaniam responded. Chelameswar jovially retorted, “Mr Subramaniam, you should be pleased that government has not mandated that they need to have Aadhaar to even love one another.” “Thankfully, that is just about the only thing they have left out, your lordships,” Subramaniam said.

Subsequent to this hearing, the Supreme Court issued an order reinforcing its earlier stand on the issue. “It is brought to our notice that in certain quarters, Aadhaar identification is being insisted upon by the various authorities,” the court said. “We expect that both the Union of India and States and all their functionaries should adhere to the Order passed by this Court on 23rd September, 2013.”

On 27 March, Ramanathan visited the Revenue Department to check that there would be no further Aadhaar-related hurdles to our registering our marriage. There she learned that the SDM who had earlier advised us to file contempt, had issued a note stating, “All concerned are requested to ensure strict compliance of the orders of Hon’ble Supreme Court of India. Any administrative instructions in violation of the order of Hon’ble Supreme Court will have no validity.” Finally, the impact of the law seemed to reach at least some of the lower offices. The ruling has not ensured compliance across all government offices, but this one circular represents one small step forward.

And so, we were married at the ADM’s office without any further trouble. But, in our first encounter with the system, we had in fact enrolled for the Aadhaar number, even if we didn’t provide it for the marriage application. Thus, we now have two more battles before us. One, to revoke the consent we were forced to give to have our information shared. Two, more ambitiously, to try and get our Aadhaar numbers revoked.

First published in Caravan, 9 May 2015.