Shehnai

By Phani Vasantarao

Here, in what is supposed to be the real world, people and faces stare at me. Familiar sights and sounds greet me everyday, daily habits make me a puppet, life and I seem to be in different places. So I lie down, close my eyes, and listen to the Shehnai. Such music does not – to me, at least – seem to belong in a world full of light.

It makes me think of evening. It makes me think of that precise point in the day when the sun has just set, its last sigh still colouring the sky. Now I think of a cramped balcony overlooking a busy street. Someone sits here – maybe someone sad. They lean against a wall, hug their knees, and try not be aware of themselves.

I know what street I am thinking of, and what balcony. It is a real place. Or at least, it used to be. Why it is this balcony, I don't know. I never lived in that house, and have distinctly unpleasant memories of it. But I know people have been in that balcony, overlooking the street, watching other people. They have seen a woman selling flowers and coconuts. They have seen a man who owns a hardware store, pipes and ropes hanging over the counter. They have seen jobless young gather at the “bakery” at the corner. These young men sip their tea while they chat idly, and dogs wag their tails hoping for some scraps of food.

So let us say this person who is watching is you. What then, is so precious about this moment? In that moment, you have stopped thinking. You are not worried about what has gone by or what is to come. Your mind has been cleared of the accumulated debris of popular and unpopular culture, of complicated ideas and simple prejudices. Your layers of pretension and personality have been peeled away. What is left behind is pure awareness, the evening, and a realization of the beauty that fills ordinary things. What is left behind is childlike innocence, in its most innocent form.

This is why I like listening to the Shehnai. It takes me back to a time when things seemed real.

By Phani Vasantarao