The Behalawallah

 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 gone away some place else.

It was the evening before Mahalaya and as usual I was busy with the household chores for the puja preparation next day. I was down to Chandu’s kirana stores with my list of things and as usual Chandu was super busy. “Wait, you always come riding a horse” he said. I waited, being admonished by Chandu. I dug into my phone to read the latest FB post, but something drew my attention away. The same soulful notes drifted through the evening air. I turned around and I saw him walking towards Chandu’s store. It was the Behalawallah.

He had grown old and the wrinkles on his face were prominent. He had acquired a hunch and the weight of the bag on his shoulder seemed heavier with age than before. He used to be tall and well built and had a radiant smile always. He now wore a thick pair of glasses and his turban was white instead of the colourful Rajasthani ones he wore years ago. He hobbled up the steps, slid the heavy bag of instruments off his shoulder, and asked Chandu for a glass of water.  Chandu obliged. “Business has been bad today, on the eve of Navratri” he told Chandu. He of course did not recognise me after all these years. “I am not surprised” Chandu said. “You are playing that same old tune for years together. Play something different. Some Hindi film songs.” The man nodded “I only know very old songs. The people today will not relate to them” he said. 

“Why don’t you give it a try?” I interjected. 

He peered at me through his thick glasses. And raised a finger trying to remember if he had seen me before. “Second floor balcony. Now do you remember?” I asked. It took him a few seconds and he broke into a radiant smile, his wrinkles stretching across the face with his grin. It was a smile that stays with you for a while. “Maybe, I will try” he said. And after drinking the glass of water he left. I also left soon as Chandu was too busy and I let him know I will be back the next morning.

The evening had an air of expectancy. The Goddess was going to arrive soon. I went home and sat on the ledge of the balcony waiting to welcome her. As I waited, the sound of his Behala wafted through the air again. But this time it was different. He started with Raj Kapoor’s “Awara Hoon”.  He played near the chai shop and the people there turned their attention to him. An elderly gentlemen walked up and started encouraging him.  He then played numbers from Dev Anand’s “Guide”, “Chalte Chalte”, “Mera Naam Joker” and a whole medley of songs. As he played, a motley crowd of people gathered around him and clapped. A young boy took what looked like a tin and started keeping the beat. Two children even danced around to the tune and all of a sudden there was an impromptu celebration. Mori Road was having it’s street corner show !

As I listened to the music, memories came flooding back of the growing up years. Of my mother’s fondness for Dev Anand and Rajesh Khanna, my fascination for bell bottom pants, the printed sarees my mother loved wearing, the one large sun glass she had as a prized possession, of being marched to the tailor with her to get our clothes stitched before pujo, of going to the Pujo in my father’s second hand car with the thrill of the wind in my face, of afternoons in the puja Pandal sipping Thumps Up, Campa Cola and Gold Spot, and rushing to the evening rehearsal before Pujo with my parents. Life was simple and often before Pujo, my father would call over Shankar Kaku his good friend, and we would have long musical evenings that ran well into the wee hours of the morning. As he played more tunes, memories of us huddled as a family around the radio listening to Binaca Geet Mala by Amin Sayani, or in the later years see Chayageet when Baba could afford a television came flooding back. Life was simple but beautiful. I found myself smiling. 

As these memories flew by with every tune he played, the sound of the drums and cymbals started becoming louder. The Goddess was on her way and my Behalawallah stopped playing his music which was now drowned by the oncoming procession. “I hope he gets some of his instruments sold” I thought to myself. 

The next morning the sky had a brilliant orange glow.  It was a majestic dawn with the sounds of the Chandi Path ringing in Mahalaya. I had to go down after breakfast again to Chandu’s shop. As I stepped out, I saw him sipping tea at the chai shop. I nodded in acknowledgement and told him “Last night was fabulous” He smiled and said “Yes, after many years I felt like a performer. I also sold some of my instruments.” 

I felt obliged, as he had taken me on a wonderful trip down memory lane. I felt I owed him. After a pause, I instinctively asked him “Can I buy one of your instruments?” He was surprised and somewhat taken aback “Of course, of course, please. It has taken me a lifetime to sell you one !” he said. “Yes, it took that long, but last night you touched the right chord. Your songs were awesome and I have seen every one of those movies.” I said. 

I returned home with the Puja offerings in one hand and a Behala in the other. My wife looked at me and said “What have you got this time?” “It’s a sort of Behala. I wanted it since I was a kid” I stammered. She stared me down and said “Every Pujo something wierd happens and this time it takes the cake”.  I smiled. I knew Pujo was here again and Mori Road still holds out it’s magic ever year without fail. Happy Pujo folks.