Bansuri notes in the morning air on Link Road. Has not happened before. Cars, buses, bikes, autos, crows ..for sure, common. A character out of film Masaan with a pile of wooden bansuris on his shoulder was airing a bansuri to get customers; do not know anything about music; yet went in search of the notes; found the bansuri player, bansuris and notes at the Jayaraj Nagar- Link Road corner. Looking around, he breathed into the bansuri; bought snake gourd and bhendi from the regular bhayya at Rs.30 per kg; made way on Link Road with bansuri swaras and ragas chasing; paused, as the gentleman caught up; in a pant dropping to the ankles, a torn blue shirt, a face with dried stains of hope, his beady eyes pleaded for a buy. 'Bauni nahin hua, saheb,' he said; well who will buy bansuris early morning from a TR Mahalingam or Chaurasia look alike; Irfan lives near Nallasopara; works as a watchman, spare time hawks bansuris; 'jeena padtha hai,' he explains. His village is near Aodhya and his bansuris are made in Benares. He has a variety of bansuris stacked on his right shoulder with some cased in plastic; prices range from Rs.100 to Rs.20; me having no relationships with bansuris, went for a Rs.20 piece; 'saab, ek sau ka ligiye, assi mein,' discounted Irfan like a e-commerce site. 'Mere ko bajana nahin aata,' me explained; offered a Rs.50 note, Irfan had no change, it being the first morning deal; we walked to the vegetable bhayya for change; fellow readily gave me five Rs.10 coins when he had denied it to Irfan. A lady approached us, examined a few bansuris, said, 'Ye aapke saat bajtha hai, mere pass nahin. Mere bachche ke liye.' Irfan tut-tutted the allegation. 'Aap baja ke dekho,' he replied. The lady blew a blast and traffic on Link Road braked. She paid Rs.20. A few friends on stone seats fixed to the pavements, whimpered our deals; wanted to say bye to the bansuri; found no kids; with Rs.40 at 7 in the morning, Irfan strolled to Murari Dairy Farm for a cup of tea; offered me one; declined; it would have been unfair. Me set for home; Irfan, bansuri and music freighted by raindrops and winds on Link Road; doubt whether he is Aadharred for inclusive banking; and what will he put in an inclusive bank; can he afford a dal-rice with dal at Rs.200 per kg; a middle class me will never know a poor Irfan, a watchman-cum-bansuri player without a music. At home, Rama snatched the bansuri; is into blowing the wooden instrument; coffee is delayed. Says she: 'This is for me, not grand-daughters.' Two humans happy. Not a bad score.
Friday, August 5, 2016
Bansuri notes
Bansuri notes in the morning air on Link Road. Has not happened before. Cars, buses, bikes, autos, crows ..for sure, common. A character out of film Masaan with a pile of wooden bansuris on his shoulder was airing a bansuri to get customers; do not know anything about music; yet went in search of the notes; found the bansuri player, bansuris and notes at the Jayaraj Nagar- Link Road corner. Looking around, he breathed into the bansuri; bought snake gourd and bhendi from the regular bhayya at Rs.30 per kg; made way on Link Road with bansuri swaras and ragas chasing; paused, as the gentleman caught up; in a pant dropping to the ankles, a torn blue shirt, a face with dried stains of hope, his beady eyes pleaded for a buy. 'Bauni nahin hua, saheb,' he said; well who will buy bansuris early morning from a TR Mahalingam or Chaurasia look alike; Irfan lives near Nallasopara; works as a watchman, spare time hawks bansuris; 'jeena padtha hai,' he explains. His village is near Aodhya and his bansuris are made in Benares. He has a variety of bansuris stacked on his right shoulder with some cased in plastic; prices range from Rs.100 to Rs.20; me having no relationships with bansuris, went for a Rs.20 piece; 'saab, ek sau ka ligiye, assi mein,' discounted Irfan like a e-commerce site. 'Mere ko bajana nahin aata,' me explained; offered a Rs.50 note, Irfan had no change, it being the first morning deal; we walked to the vegetable bhayya for change; fellow readily gave me five Rs.10 coins when he had denied it to Irfan. A lady approached us, examined a few bansuris, said, 'Ye aapke saat bajtha hai, mere pass nahin. Mere bachche ke liye.' Irfan tut-tutted the allegation. 'Aap baja ke dekho,' he replied. The lady blew a blast and traffic on Link Road braked. She paid Rs.20. A few friends on stone seats fixed to the pavements, whimpered our deals; wanted to say bye to the bansuri; found no kids; with Rs.40 at 7 in the morning, Irfan strolled to Murari Dairy Farm for a cup of tea; offered me one; declined; it would have been unfair. Me set for home; Irfan, bansuri and music freighted by raindrops and winds on Link Road; doubt whether he is Aadharred for inclusive banking; and what will he put in an inclusive bank; can he afford a dal-rice with dal at Rs.200 per kg; a middle class me will never know a poor Irfan, a watchman-cum-bansuri player without a music. At home, Rama snatched the bansuri; is into blowing the wooden instrument; coffee is delayed. Says she: 'This is for me, not grand-daughters.' Two humans happy. Not a bad score.
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