Bong sung blue

How come you went to Calcutta and didn't bring back any notun gurer sondesh? people ask. Nor any mishti doi or smoked hilsa, they add. It's true that Bunny and I didn't this time bring back any of Calcutta's famous delicacies. However Bunny did bring back the soul of Bengal, as distinct from its merely material manifestations. Bunny brought back Rabindra songeet, on a whole bunch of CDs.To the uninitiated, Rabindra songeet is a body of songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore. To the acolyte, Rabindra songeet is a passionate credo, a genuflexion at the altar of bhadralok culture. Rabindra songeet is very much high church, so to speak, or rather sing, as opposed to adhunik, which refers to anything composed post-Gurudeb and which is universally dismissed as baaje, or worthless, by the true cognoscenti. Go to any gathering of Bengalis, from Calcutta to California, and sooner rather than later, someone will say: How about some Rabindra songeet? And sure enough, present company will inevitably include a notable exponent of the genre, a Deepalidi, or a Khukhudi, or a Ganeshda, who will be urged to regale the assembly. Deepalidi (or Khukhudi, or Ganeshda) will at first demur: Golla boshe gachche. Literal meaning: My throat has sat down. Real meaning: You want me to sing, baby, you work at it. So after much coaxing and cajoling, Ganeshda (or Khukhudi, or Deepalidi) will be persuaded to oblige. Cocking the head artistically to one side (presumably to enable the sitting down vocal chords to assume a more elevated status), the singer gives tongue and everyone falls into a trance. Particularly me. The song might be Aami chini goh chini, or Ei Monihar, or Ekla cholo re, or even that supreme culmination, Aguner poroshmoni. I'm never quite sure which. For though the songs have different words and tempos, they are delivered with an air of such liturgical reverence that I find it near impossible to tell them apart. The custodians of Gurudeb's legacy laid down strict rules as to how and with what accompaniments Rabindra songeet could be sung. For many years, for instance, the inoffensive harmonium was excluded as being raffishly adhunik and hence taboo. Such quality control has imparted to the whole thing a soporific grandeur, a soothing sameness like the ebb and flow of the tides of the Padma on the banks of which many of the songs were composed. But if I can't quite tell you what Rabindra songeet sounds like, I can tell you what it feels like. It feels like a Sunday afternoon stretching in melancholic langour in Gariahat Second Lane, the patter of monsoon rain on the pavement echoing the sizzle of baigun bhaja being fried in mustard oil as you contemplate the great mysteries of life. Such as why the price of illeesh maach always goes up but never down. Or why, though phootball is its passion, Bengal ranks 127 on the FA list. To cut a long songeet short, Bunny brought back a passel of Bong sung blue from Cal. The inimitable strains of Rabindra songeet emanate from our appositely named Bose music system. Eh jibon purno koro, eh jibon purno koro (complete this life, complete this life), intones Bose. I can smell those baigun bhajas. Then the Haryana electricity board purno koroes the epiphany through a power cut. The Bose falls silent. The aroma of frying mustard oil recedes. Suddenly a familiar wailing resumes. But it isn't Bose, the sound system. It is Brindle, the dog, essaying her own rendition of Aguner poroshmoni. I think you have another convert, I tell Bunny, who ignores the observation. But something tells me that as and when the power is restored, we'll get a change of musical pace. Perhaps some lowly vintage Rafi or early Beatles. Or maybe a real adhunik type. Like Bach, or even a baaje Beethoven.