It was that time of the year yet again. It was the evening before Mahalaya. I had to run a few household chores and ran down to Chandu’s store to get my supplies for the next day. Chandu was busy and this time of the evening was his peak hour. I waited for my turn and was growing impatient by each passing minute when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Master Moshai. Through the years I had lost touch with him and hardly ever met him. I first met him when I was in eight grade and my parents thought it prudent to have me under his tutelage given, he had a great reputation as a teacher. I was marched off, somewhat against my own wishes to join his tutorial. The final approval came after an hour-long interview that my grandfather had with him to satisfy himself of his credentials. My grandfather christened him Master Moshai and I grew up knowing him as that. Otherwise, Mori Road knew him by a different name. “How are you?” he asked in his booming voice. He still stood to his full hei
If you sat idling on my balcony in the late afternoon or early evening, chances are you would be treated to some soulful music. From my growing up years, I have seen him ambling along playing his “Behala” and the tunes he played had become a part of me over the years. I have enjoyed many sunsets listening to his renditions. He would often stop and play to people who showed him some interest in the hope he would sell one of his instruments. The instrument he played was a small Voilin like thing, with a two strings and a strange bow that was somewhat bent. My mother called him the Behalawallah and I grew up knowing him as such. He had noticed that I was an avid listener perched on my balcony and often waved to me. A couple of times when we crossed paths, he even suggested that I buy one of his instruments but I had politely refused. Though the urge to hold one of them in my hand always remained. As the years rolled by and as life got busy, I stopped noticing him. Or perhaps he had go