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This is an incident that took place about forty (maybe closer to fifty) years ago.
It was narrated to me by my cousin, and I have tried to recall it as vividly as I can. |
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Dear Reader,
This newsletter was triggered by an announcement on Facebook:
Yogesh is going to be on tour in the USA in September, 2019.
He'll be touring New York, Texas, California, Ohio and Michigan.
Yogesh's Dad was my cousins' music teacher. (Yes, the apostrophe is in the correct place, he taught at least two of my cousins!) So Yogesh's family and mine have known each other years, before either Yogesh or I were born, actually. The two families are close to each other -- emotionally, and fortunately, physically, too, the apartment houses are just a few blocks away from one another. If their apartment in Mumbai was getting a fresh coat of paint, Yogesh's Dad, who was allergic to the smell of fresh paint, hopped across and stayed with my cousins.
When I saw the announcement that Yogesh is going to tour the US of A, I was all excited, and it triggered this memory of drama that Yogesh had created at my cousins' place, almost fifty years ago.
Yogesh comes from a family of musicians. His parents and older sister all being dedicated Hindustani vocalists, he heard music around him every waking moment. It was no surprise that he took to music at an early age -- his preferred mode being the 'tabla' -- the Indian percussion instrument.
Now the tabla is typically played while sitting cross-legged on the floor, hitting the dual-surface of the drum with either the open palm or the finger. This child, as a two-year-old, could barely reach to play the instrument, but played it nonetheless whenever he could.
And once, at the age of almost-three, he created a bit of true drama that has become the stuff of legend in my family and his.
My cousins were hosting an all-night concert (Hinduatani vocal) at their apartment, with about a hundred guests invited. The vocalists were accompanied on the tabla by various maestros. Almost-three year old Yogesh was in the audience, sitting on his mother's lap.
When the music began (must've been around 8 PM), Yogesh toddled off his mother's lap, went to the tabla player, and said, "I'm hungry, please give it to me."
The tabla player moved off and helped the child sit at the instrument. The child was 'hungry', not for food, but for music. Hungry to play the instrument. He played for a bit, accompanying the vocalist perfectly, till sleep overtook him and he fell asleep there, his head on the tabla. Someone picked him up and returned him to his mother's lap. From then on, through the night, Yogesh kept waking up in spurts, asking that his 'hunger' -- to be part of the music -- be appeased, accompanying the vocalist till he fell asleep again.
True innocence, true passion ... real drama.
Thanks for listening!
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Thank you for the responses to "Real and Fake" !
Christopher Roy Denton  It's called "suspension of disbelief", my friend. Great discussion!
Quick-Quill  Your NL points out a fact. I know a woman who could play the piano and organ well, but lacked soul. She couldn't feel the music. She just played. The same goes for writing. Some can tell a story and some people can TELL a story. I'm rewriting a manuscript for a friend. The story is so so and lacks heart. She's trying to tell a story based on events in her life. However some of the events don't make sense. They just happened. As I try to interpret what she's trying to says, she loves everything I write. It's the difference of saying "you are or you aren't" to "TO BE! or NOT TO BE That is the question" It's all in the passion.
Thank you Writing.Com Support  for the highlight in "Note: View this Note" |
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Drama: June 19, 2019 Issue [#9605]
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