It’s 6:30am on a Saturday morning as I get on to the South end of the Sea Link. As the radio channel belts out “Chaugada”, I turn the music up, bob my head, and sing along with abandon. Wait a minute. I am going for an early morning Kabir concert, should I be listening to Bollywood? Maybe I should be evacuating my head and soul in preparation? Well, maybe just this one song…
I must admit that I am second-guessing my motives for this early morning excursion. I enjoy classical music but enough to sustain two hours of it? Not sure. As far as Kabir goes, I remember studying him rather reluctantly in Class X and all that has stayed with me is that he wrote dohas (couplets), and each one had “kahat Kabir” (Kabir says) in them. So what am I doing buying a return-pass at the Sea Link at the crack of dawn from a half-sleepy, bundled-up-like-it’s-the-Rohtang-pass toll attendant? Perhaps it’s this need to test anything new. Or I am doing my best to live up the moniker of ‘artsy fartsy’ that a friend has bestowed on me?
The sun has not yet risen as I drive up the Carter Road promenade, but it’s lurking at the horizon lending the blue sky a lavender hue. The morning walkers are pounding down the beaten track and some foolish-hearts have ventured out onto the rocks jutting out in the sea. Farther out, I can make out the silhouette of small fishing boats, that were anchored through the night.
The poster says “Carter Road open-air amphitheatre”, but I miss it the first time I drive past. I was expecting a more formal setup with a grand stage and a couple hundred people sitting on mattresses. It’s not, in fact it’s not much larger than the laughing groups that gather in gardens early morning. The performers are seated in the centre with myriad instruments. I recognise a harmonium, small cymbals, dholak, and small tanpura-like instrument. About 30 listeners have gathered in a circle around them, some seated on jute mats, some senior citizens on chairs, and some standing at the periphery. I join the people at the back, already plotting my exit strategy.
A singer and a dholak player start off, and, within seconds, they stand up, take centre-stage and break into a jig as they sing and play. Some in the group are swaying with the music, and a few, probably the organisers, are singing along. As I allow the music to wash over me, my roving eye takes in the sights. Not more than 20 metres from the group, on an elevated podium a young man is jogging on the spot. It seems like his regular spot, and he has not relinquished it this morning to Kabir.
As my attention wanders back to the concert, another singer has taken over, accompanied by the tanpura. The crowd has billowed to about 60. Some have procured hot beverages in paper cups, though I cannot figure from where. My stomach grumbles in supplication, but I stay rooted at my spot. I am not transfixed by the music so much as the atmosphere. More join the audience. Some come from the walking track, probably curious about this distraction. A family has wandered over from a residence across the road, their coffee cups in hand. A few seem like afficionados, singing along, eyes-closed, swaying.
Have I had enough? Should I leave? Maybe a few minutes longer. My eyes wander back to the jogger, he’s still at it—piling up the miles but never leaving his spot. The sun is up, it has dispersed most of the early morning colours, and has turned the sky an even cobalt.
A lady dressed in a short embroidered jacket over her salwar kurta is in the middle of the circle. As the singer’s voice fills the air, she raises her hand to the sky and arches her back like a ballet dancer. The song continues and she stretches and arches and sways in slow, elaborate movements. I can’t understand the words but she seems to absorb them and react to them through the movements.
It’s been an hour and a half and the spot jogger has neither stopped nor moved.
It’s been an hour and a half, and I too have not moved. I am not sure what has held me to that spot—the music, the singers, the collective vibe of the crowd that has swelled to over a hundred now? I give up on the self-analysis and surrender to the moment.
The session is nearing its end, and, as all music concerts do, this one too is rising to a crescendo. All the performers are on their feet, singing, playing music, dancing, and jumping. The joy on their faces is unmistakable. I realise I too have been swaying to the tune and I can feel my smile stretched from ear to ear. Why? I don’t know and I don’t care.
And the jogger? He’s gone.