A love note to a ferry and ferryman, passenger and passage
There were two friends from Peradeniya University who filled my heart
with music. Nishad Handunpathirana, probably the most accomplished
exponent of the israj in South Asia, didn’t teach me anything. I spent
days that turned into weeks and months at his house in Sinhapitiya,
Gampola, courtesy of the UNP-JVP bheeshanaya. His father taught music.
Nishad played. They listened to North Indian classical music. Certain
things have to be heard over and over again before they are understood
and appreciated, like the words ‘I love you’.
Thilak Bandara Herath and I had a contractual agreement. I spoke to
him in English every morning as we trekked the one and a half miles from
our ‘chummery’ in Gunnepana to Dumbara Campus, Polgolla and he sang all
the way back. He writes poetry in English now. From those unforgettable
nights I gathered lyrics and sentiments, images and heartbreak, laughter
and tears, all of which have broken me and made me again and again in
the decades that swept away life and rained it back on me, hard and
soft, now and then.
Double insult
They played a game with me, these two. They would hold auditions. I
was required to sing and they would judge and pass comments. They would
always encourage but make sure that I entertained no illusions
whatsoever about becoming a singer. I remember a particular night when
after singing several songs, Thilak spoke the most encouraging words I
had heard up to that point: ‘umbata puluwan machang’ (you can, my
friend). I am, as I write, smiling as broadly as I did back then. Then
came the punch-line: ‘Shelton Pereratath muladi behe’ (even Shelton
Perera couldn’t (sing) at the beginning).
That was a backhanded compliment. It was a double insult as well. I
may have deserved it, but Shelton Perera certainly did not. I saw him
only once in my life. This is how I remembered that moment from 30 years
ago when I wrote about Shelton for The Nation some years back: ‘I was
with my father at the Arts Centre Club, following a recital by ‘Ustad’
Podi Appuhamy, arguably the best exponent of the sitar born in this
country.
The maestro was drunk but this did not take anything away from his
performance, as far as I could gather. Shelton Perera was accompanying
him on the tabla. I didn’t know much about North Indian classical music
back then and I can’t claim to have acquired any knowledge since, but I
knew that there was tension in the back and forth between sitarist and
tablist.
Singing career
I was amazed by both men and the way their respective fingers drew
forth sound and (increasingly) fury from their instruments. That tension
enveloped the Lionel Wendt auditorium and I gathered from audience
response and the expression of resignation (and very apparent disgust)
by the ‘Ustad’ that Shelton Perera had bested him.
He was having a drink. He spoke softly. I can’t remember how long we
were there, but I remember these words: ‘he asked for it, and I gave
it’.
I had heard Shelton Perera before that audition and countless times
afterwards as well. I never detected ‘cannot’ in his voice. It was
always ‘can and how!’ And each time I remember Thilak and Nishad,
teasing and thereby humbling me out of exploring a singing career, even
in jest. I heard him a few days ago. ‘Egodaha Yanno’ (those who want to
cross to the other bank) is as much a signature song as any he has sung.
I searched for the song on youtube.
All I found was Udesh Indula’s rendition for ‘Dream Star’. I don’t
watch much TV and am not into these ‘star’ shows. Had never heard of
this young boy. I concurred with one of the commentators, ‘you made me
wonder if Shelton had somehow made it to the Dream Star stage’.
Perfect imitation
All I understand right now is that a wonderful voice ferried me to
another shore and brought me back, only to take me across and thereafter
bring me back. All I know is that we are all ferrymen and we are all
passengers and that there are times we are both at once; all ‘beginners’
and ‘virtuosos’, in one thing or another and sometimes both.
We are all on the banks of a River Anoma. We are all ferrying or
being ferried from one shore to the other. Shelton says, ‘mata hari
wehesai’ (I am exhausted). He urges, gently, ‘come, if you are coming’.
Shelton says ‘I am but going back and forth on this ferry’. He says it
is getting late and repeats, gently, ‘come, if you want to go across to
the other shore.’ He stopped ferrying people a quarter of a century ago.
The ferry still moves from one shore to the other and back again.
At some point perhaps ferry, ferryman, imitation, imitator, passenger
and passage will all disappear along with music and lyrics. There are
times I feel weary and when voice or its perfect imitation is not
substitute enough. All I know is that I am weary and am not sure if it
is on account of ferrying or being ferried. Maybe it is because, as
Thilak said (and Nishad endorsed with nod and half-smile) I am at the
beginning. Or perhaps at the end.
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