The
silence of the Himalayas heavily perched on our backs, we wistfully set out
into the plains again.
The
crystal clear skies above the mountain tops were already becoming a distant
memory.
The
priceless companionship of crickets were increasingly replaced with sounds of
traffic and marketplaces.
Yet the
silence of the mountains, the stillness of the air and a weight upon our hearts
barricaded the ripples of the outside world.
Slowly
and gently we were slipping into reverie, just like the sun threatening to dip
beyond the dusty fields.
Some
quick glasses of lassi and one papery dosa later, we marched up to the taxi
stand that would take us to the transit town in Bengal.
Throwing
a glance behind us, we spotted those conifers which bristled as though they
knew what lay ahead of us.
Dusty
roads, cracked highways, jammed town squares and listless Bollywood songs that
would put us in and out of misery at the music player's will.
The green
of the tea gardens crouched beneath a layer of ridiculous brown. Dust. A brown
that threatened to stay until the skies showered.
Men and
women picked their way amongst these shrubs for a living. They must know the
green. Or the black, dried leaves.
Leaves
that would waft the aroma of the mountains, in a cup. The mountains were still
and untouched by the chaos of the lower mortals.
Mortals
who could pen lyrics about women being the balm to the wounded hearts of men.
Listless songs for a wandering humankind.
The sun
dipped. And so did our hearts, through those pothole-ridden highways, despite
the fake cheer of the driver.
Stop with
the Bollywood songs. The aux chord is mine now. The air (within the car) shall
reverberate with some thing of greater deference to our mood.
The
evening stars refuse to come out. The air is still coated in dust. The
mountains are no longer in our sight.
Something
needs to change. A reluctantly cheerful Coke Studio song slips along. We hum
nonchalantly. Our eyes still search for something exciting in the horizon.
Time
slips by, with our destination nowhere in sight. The songs line our journey one
indie, one classical, one hip-hop and hardly any Bollywood.
Now the
silence rests in our eyes only. The wistful smile that breaks once or twice on
recognising a song on the playlist, immediately drips of a dryness that is
customary after a sumptuous feast.
We had
feasted on the mountains. Our stomachs were nourished with the banter of the
mountainfolk. Our eyes and hearts were brimming of mountain stories.
The
Himalayas would weigh upon us. Like anything.
Suddenly,
a twang of the violin.
The night
was completely upon us. Google maps, coded in its own bars and colours showed
us that the destination was hardly an hour away.
The tea
gardens had given away to a gorgeous winding valley. No colours to be noted by
the eye in the dead black of the night.
No stars
still, but a huge glowing moon shone behind sparse clouds that drifted by.
The
violin now flirtatiously courted the bass guitar. Keys gently chaperoning their
clandestine meet.
The music
was lilting. The windows were down now. No dust in the air.
The car
gently swerved along the curves and we moaned at the sight of river that was
suddenly rushing by our road now.
The
moonlight glistened on the river like silver threads on a black sheet that
rippled gently. Slowly the drums picked up and a keeravani
as heavenly as the night caroused the air.
Silence
was everywhere. Rock'n'Roll infused with Carnatic like the glorious moon
playing hide and seek behind those wispy clouds.
We were
smiling. The driver was amused at the change of weather. The trees alongside
the river rustled in approval.
The voice
of the violin, adorned by the notes of keeravani,
tangoed magically to the shy percussion. James Bond would have been proud of
the sly.
Our heads
were firmly sticking out of the window now. Sniffing the air of the valley.
Smiling with the contentment of peaking in the plains just as well.
Crickets
were back keeping pace with the jazz and Carnatic and rock and roll.
This, my
friends, is how I will recount what Skyfall Keeravani means to me.
The
silence of the hills, the seduction of a river by the valley and the thoroughly
beaming benevolence of the moon in the company of my friends, wind grazing our
faces with a candour that only wanderers have experienced. Skyfall Keeravani is
that sweet piece of music to me.
