Rabindra Sangeet for the Non-literate

I grew up in Bihar. Aspiring to learn Rabindra Sangeet (pronounced Rōbindrō Shongit), like all Bengali girls who belonged to “cultured” families. If nothing else, it would add to my equity in the marriage market when my parents were looking out for a groom for me.

My Mum who was herself a good singer (but untrained after the initial few years), even got me a teacher. I was just about 10 then. A stick-thin lady in her 40s. I would describe Gaaner Didi (I did not understand why I had to call her Didi {Bengali for elder sister} when she was older than my Mum) as a confirmed spinster with librarian glasses, very oily, braided hair, reaching down to her waist. The braid was left untied at the end, leaving behind three permanently separated rat-tail like portions of hair.

She had thin, almost man-like fingers. Darkened at the tips, probably from playing the harmonium for years. She had thin lips which would purse together when she would sing. She never wore any lipstick like my Mother. Her lips were dark, I guessed from drinking too much tea. She never smiled either, even when my Mum paid her two hundred rupees as fee for my music lessons.

I was to go for my music lessons four times a month. Every Friday evening at five. The neighborhood rickshaw wala Kanhai was “fixed”. He would drop me to my new teacher’s house and wait there till I’d finish my lessons, then bring me home.

My music lesson started with touching the music teacher’s feet, a ritual I had to repeat before leaving “class”. She did not touch my head or kiss my forehead to give “ashirwaad” (blessing), like my Dida did. I thought maybe it was only Grandmothers who showered those affections. 

We sat cross-legged on cotton rugs spread across my music teacher’s living room. We, here are her and me only. I felt special. Didi’s living room was dark, in spite of a light bulb glowing. The walls had framed pictures of old men and women hanging. The photographs were in black and white, but looked yellow. Among the pictures I also saw and identified the old man with long flowing beard. I knew he was Rabindranath Tagore.

He looks like a Bengali Santa Claus I had once joked with my kid sister, who in turn had tattled it to my Mother.

My first day started with gola porishkaar literally meaning I had to tune my voice. The notes from Classical Indian music kicked in, and I had to sing along Sa re ga ma…with Didi. I was already learning some Indian Classical music in the convent school I went to. Sister Roseline and her Kerala accent were just perfectly tuned to my ears. The Bengali version of the same sounded alien to me.

A month passed by and I was still doing Sa re ga ma…with very little enthusiasm.

My fingers were itching to touch my music teacher’s harmonium. Sometimes, when she would leave me alone to open the door to let her domestic help in or make herself some tea, I would sneakily press a key on the harmonium or “hand pump” its bellow.

My Mum intervened one weekend. From the next Friday, I started learning my first Rabindra Sangeet. I hated it instantly. I did not understand a word. I flustered when I was asked to repeat the line my music teacher had just sung.

The next Friday, Didi asked me to open my brand new notebook and write the lyrics down. I was finally looking at some hope.

She said the first line of the song, I started writing it in the Roman script. She peeped into my copybook, scowled and cringed at the same time and said, “E ki tumi Bangla likhte paaro na?” Figuratively speaking -  You are illiterate!

I felt a lump in my throat and fought back tears. Even 10-year-olds had some self-respect. I shook my head, and did not look at her. I continued to press the nib of my fountain pen on the paper. The blue ink spread onto my index finger and thumb. My fingers and my soul were paining. Even my pen was bleeding!

The next Friday I faked a tummy ache and even missed my Mum’s Mutton Biryani for dinner. By Wednesday, I was already hatching a plan. But nothing worked. I was sent packing to Didi’s “music” chamber again. But I left my copybook and pen at home! Wicked clever.

I kept singing for the next one hour – Posto toder daak diyeche and wondered what if poppy seeds could really talk! Very poetic. Maybe they would tell my Mum exactly how much to add to her Chingri recipe.

My Rabindra Sangeet lessons were gradually coming to an end, with more and more gaps in between each class. Exams in school were on, and marks over music were any day more priority. Then Spring break happened. I stopped going completely.

Many years later, I rekindled my liking for Rabindra Sangeet and set out searching for Tagore’s gems on YouTube and found something which brought a little laugh and eked out the pain of being illiterate when it came to the Bengali language.

This song, which I had mis-learnt, mispronounced and in the end never learnt in all those months of going to a teacher!

Forgive me Gurudev, for I had sinned. I chose a wrong teacher and never asked any questions.