Category: Of Family & Friends

Her father was a Ragi who sang Gurbani Shabad in the mornings at the local Gurudwara was what I got to know three months after I had first met her. That, Bhai Gurnam Singh was an accomplished classical singer with the day job of an LDC with some ministry came to my knowledge another month later. But I had never imagined that a Ragi would become my passport to understanding the Adi Granth and would be instrumental in my first ever visit to a Gurudwara besides pulling me into music and Indian ragas.

Idolatory or being religious was not a part of our upbringing and I had visited only two temples in my entire school life – one of those was Birla Mandir for a picnic – and the other was the one in our locality which I had visited during Janmashtmi with my Nani for nothing more than the prasad. I had never been inside another place of worship, a Gurudwara, Masjid or a Church and didn’t have a clue that  Parsi Fire Temple also existed. Except for a Sikh boy, I didn’t have friends from other faiths during my school.

When I  saw her for the first time in college she was leaning against a pillar, her left leg bent back with her foot resting against the pillar as if holding up the first floor corridor like a firm scaffolding. 

Trials for the college badminton team were being conducted. Freshers lined up on two opposite sides of the court, girls and boys facing each other on two sides of the net, while seniors, coach, and physical instructors on the other. The third or fourth game for girls had just ended. Seniors were smirking while freshers wearing contemptuous looks, eyes lowered, were ready for the kill. Hooting was at its peak. Eyes, less on shuttle or smashes, were tracing the bouncing uppers. After the singles games for girls, it was the turn for boys’ singles to be followed by mixed doubles.  

Her short but stout body was well supported by athletic muscles, the unfeminine coppery contours more attractive than her sweat-beaded face. Worn out white Carona sports shoes had probably been chalk coated the day before (Nike’s had not come to the country till then). From the other side of badminton court I was admiring her guts for having worn a short skirt, a pleated white one, more like shorts, clasping her ample butt. A big green, yes green, side button completely out of place in her total attire, was holding the skirt in place.

Her oiled hair were neatly tied in two short braids with an almost flat centre parting sticking to her scalp. The broad forehead contoured to her thick lashes. Her skin tone was on the darker side of a walnut with very average looks that didnt attract attention, leave aside flirtatious remarks or whistles for which the college was well known in DU. High cheek bones and a narrow chin gave her face a triangular shape. In spite of all that she seemed attractive and charming in a different way. No, I had NOT fallen in love with her.

She was standing away from the other girls, all by herself. The metal frame racquet twirling in her right hand like a lasso in the hands of an expert rodeo… another racquet was protruding out of the plasticy kit slung on her shoulder. No one else had two racquets, showing off I thought The sleeveless loose black top, neatly tucked in her skirt, curled up at all the right places. Streaks of sweat trickling under that were steaming before they ran their course. She wiped her cheek with the back of her palm and later, without any discretion, blew air inside the top turning her head side to side, then sheepishly looking away and pulling it closer up to her curling lips. 

She was edgy, restless, uncomfortable, desperate – possibly to get done with it – the soonest. From my position behind the coach and the one conducting trials I moved closer to the group of seniors who were only looking at the contingent of girls and not the game. She was the last one to be called, that is when I got to know her name. Amrita… thats what was called out… no last name. She moved to the edge of the court without looking at any one. The girl on the other side had already taken position and was waiting for the shuttle. The game begin with a whistle, the first rally was short and calm, as if both girls were testing waters and then suddenly Amrita pushed a short one to the other side nearly kissing the net. The senior girl, as if frozen, couldn’t move even a step before the shuttle landed in her side. The next service from Amrita came as a smash on the left side of her opponent without giving her chance to even come in a position to defend. Service after services Amrita was smashing through the defences of her opponent who wasn’t able to even pick up five points in the game. It was short, fierce and ruthless attack by Amrita. A loud roar erupted as she left the court, she didn’t acknowledge, as if used to the such applause. The coach called her out to the other side asking her to wait. She went and sat in the shade on the floor folding her legs and clasping the kit in her lap. There were murmurs and whispers all around. From the first floor corridor some shouted ‘Shabash Sikhni’.

In the boys’ round the senior facing me was tall and of much better built. He smashed a few almost on my chest, I manged to return a few but finally lost the game 21-14… not bad I thought but I was not happy. Some of the other guys had played better but to my surprise the coach asked me to wait. Sliding against the wall I sat down a few feet away from Amrita. She turned to look, a faint smile broke over her cheeks. I too smiled back. All those who were asked to wait slowly started joining us along the wall. The seniors had begun to leave. Eight of us had to be selected but the results were to be declared only the next day. As the trails ended, the 12 shortlisted were handed over a paper each with a number on it. As soon as she got her sheet she flashed it towards me… a big 6G was written on it, I waived mine – it had 6B on it. We smiled again and got up to leave. It was past five, but for a few students outside the Union Room, the college was empty. We moved out of the college gate slowly trudging towards the empty bus stop. In humid August, heavy clouds hung low over gray sky. It was still without a hint of breeze, all of us were soaked in sweat. The last of the U-special had left at 3.30, at this hour we would only get the regular service.

I didn’t get to see her the next day or the day after. The Notice Board declared she had been selected and so was I. I got to know that she had enrolled for BA Pass course (sports quota – she was Delhi school champ) and that she lived in Janakpuri when I met her a week later at the canteen where she was sitting all by herself munching a dosa, her kit by her side on the floor. A faint, made-up smile broke over her face as I passed her table. Without speaking a word she pointed to the chair facing her. She was still eating so I didn’t utter a word and asked the waiter to get me a coffee, raising her finger she told the waiter to add another cup for her. She was a slow eater. College canteens served limited items – samosa, dosa, bread pakora and sandwich – in drinks it was coca cola or strong, sugary milk tea and coffee.

It was past two. I didn’t have another class that day while she still had to attend her last, the Political Science, she didn’t like the subject she added. How about a game, she asked. I wasn’t prepared for this and muttered but I haven’t brought my racquet. She pulled two out of her kit as we walked to the court in the centre of college building. No one was there. I noticed that she was wearing track pants and Carona shoes while I was in flares and leather shoes with one inch heel. I couldn’t have played in those shoes. Looking at me she took off her shoes and asked me to take off mine. I started laughing. Playing barefoot on cement court, Wow! Not that it was the first time. She beat me well and proper in the two games we played. As we crossed the court to wear shoes and pick up our stuff Amrita came close and put her arm around my shoulder, a soft pat culminated in an unintended half-a-hug. We shook hands and moved our ways. She was whistling and humming some song, I was nervous. I had never hugged a girl, not till then, not in a romantic way.

We practised and played couple of games every day, sometime even on Sunday. Mutual fondness grew as we spent time together, in canteen, in library, lazing in the ground, watching a movie and discussing her syllabus. She wasn’t happy with her course, hers was a large class of 37 students. Mine, the English Literature one, on the other had in all eleven. Amrita was a quiet kind of girl, hardly saying anything, so, not many made friends with her.

Two months later came the time when Inter-College competitions started. We were representing our college in Singles and Mixed-doubles. One of those days in a west Delhi college the competition started well beyond scheduled time and finished rather late in the evening… it was dark by the time we got the bus. Amrita said her house was quite a walk from the bus stop, I offered to walk with her. She didn’t mind. She lived on the second floor of three-storyed DDA flats. I was about to take my leave when she said why dont you come up and meet my parents. It is late, I said, some other time. No, she insisted, come and have a cup of tea and meet my parents. I couldn’t say no after that. As we approached the landing outside their apartment I could hear some one singing rather sombre notes – as if in grief – invoking mercy. I knew it was a Hindustani bandish with Punjabi lyrics. My heart started beating faster… who was singing? Was she from a family of singers? Was she also a singer? It was her mother who opened the door but the woman didnt look like the mother of an 18 year old – she looked more like an older sister. I stopped at the door once again asking to be excused, but her mom insisted, come in. Amrita’s father was sitting on a cotton rug in the middle of ‘drawing room’, facing us as we entered, still in the middle of  ‘riaaz’ or singing,  unmindful of the creaky fan above – a harmonium in front of him. A loosely tied white turban together with white shirt and payajama completed the persona of this frail man who looked much older than his wife. His long salt-n-pepper beard lazily fluttering over black & white keys of the instrument. He motioned me to sit down, which I did, while Amrita went to the other side with her mom. Having finished singing he folded his hands and said a soft namastey. I was embarrassed but I reciprocated his action bending forward almost touching his feet. Big smile broke over his face as he said in a deep voice, ‘to tum rajinder ho…’ I nodded. So I have been mentioned at home… it made me uneasy. God knows what all she has told them about me.

In half an hour that I spent with Amrita’s father, he told me that he learnt music from his mother and from Raagi’s at the the Gurudwara; that he sang every morning at the local Gurudwara and occasionally at cultural functions but without any monetary rewards; and, that he had also recorded for All India Radio. When the conversation moved to me I got all nervous answering questions about my family, siblings and our interest in music. In my family I was the only one who had ‘learnt’ music as a part of school’s “Music Team” as they called it. I was vocalist, singing solo as also for the choir. Thankfully I didn’t have to explain much as Amrita and her mother came in with a tray of chai. Both of them were grinning and looking at each other every time I stole a glance towards either of them. I could tell that my face was going red and that in all probabilities I was being mocked. Bhai Gurnam Singh said that the melody he was singing. was set in Raag Bilaval from the Adi Granth. That the entire Adi Granth has been set in more than 60 Raag and that each chapter of the holy book is based on a specific Raag. I asked him when could I listen to him… he laughed and added ‘come to the Gurudwara on Sunday morning’. Promising to see him next Sunday I quickly gulped down the cup, and begged their leave and in my hurry forgot to pick up my notebook from the floor.

Amrita was standing outside my classroom as I came in the next day. She handed me the notebook and rushed for her class without saying anything. Dr Bhatt’s lecture was in progress. Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’urbervilles was being discussed. As I opened the notebook I realised that a page towards the end had its corner folded as a bookmark. A million thoughts crossed my mind in seconds as I flipped pages.. and there spread across two pages was 

अव्वल अल्लाह नूर उपाया कुदरत दे सब बन्दे , एक नूर ते सब जग उपजया कौन भले को मंदे 

Complete Shabad running in some 20 lines was written in neat and cursive hand in Hindustani. The top right hand corner of the page said: Raag Prabhatee.

It wasn’t Amrita’s hand, for I knew her writing and she didnt use a fountain pen. So was it her dad? Why? Why did he have to send that for me? I couldn’t concentrate in the class after that. Amrita met me later that afternoon at the court. I was in the middle of a practice game with our coach when she walked in and started playing with another girl. As we walked out of the college that evening she said ‘my dad said that he will be singing bhajan at the Gurudwara on Sunday, if you are interested reach by 9 in the morning, And… she stopped for a few seconds.. he wrote something in your notebook… I hope you didnt mind that. No, no… suddenly I was on the defensive.. why would I mind, it is so nice of him to have made the effort for me. I like it. I wish he sings the same. I will surely come.

Three days later, he did sing the same – Kabir bani from the Adi Granth. His rendition of the Shabad was spell binding… fifty minutes of pure bliss during which he sang and explained both the Shabad and the Raag. As I was leaving the Gurudwara that morning, Amrita walked with me to the gate and handed me a yellow cloth pouch having a steel bangle, a Kara, in it. Amrita looked a completely different girl, another person altogether, in traditional Salwar-suit, a bright yellow dupata covering her head. We crossed the road and stopped short of the bus stop. Why this? I held the kara close to her face… It will protect you and will look good on you, she smiled tapping the Kara in my hand. I couldnt make any sense of her answer… it seemed odd.

Things became amply clear the next day when I was sitting in the canteen with two girls and a boy from my class. Amrita walked in, looked around and waved at me to come out. I took time finishing the conversation and the coffee, only to join her after 15 minutes. She was standing by the canteen wall. Looking at my hands she said, ‘you couldn’t even wear it for a day? not even for me? I got it for you with so much love, and my father said we will make such a lovely couple”. She turned left and ran through the corridor. I couldnt believe my ears. 

That evening I left a note on her kit at the badminton court. “I have loved you as a friend and as a sister Amrita, not a Valentine.”

<I found a wonderful friend in Amrita’s father, learning and enjoying music with him, till his sudden death while we were in final year college. Amrita remained a close pal till death took her away in 2011.>