The Lull Behind the Trumpet

I wonder who designed his ruffled, red and white, flashy uniform that glitters even in dim light. His crazy ensemble of dhols and trumpets, whose tonal qualities are a plane above, beyond the parameters of good or bad. That chheda, simple yet incredibly rhythmic, unique to his genre of music. The music that never followed any school of thought, musicians who never learnt the intricacies of notes and ragas. Their assets are their voluminous lungs and an indefatigable stamina. Without them Indian weddings would pale. It’s not music but celebration of life that they mark with their presence. Of them, he is the quintessential Bandwallah.
He comes, enlivens the evening, the trumpet crying hoarse, his legs in communion with his music. He enchants the kids with runny noses, depresses the demure bride under the chintz veil and tells the whole mohalla that yes, the wedding matters; and then he departs with a paltry sum in the dead of the night on a tempo, if lucky, on foot otherwise.
It’s a busy day at the office of Shiv Kumar Band in South Delhi’s Madangir market. Rishi Pal, the owner, is busy negotiating with a client on phone, “Na, na, barah hazar se ek rupaya bhi kam nahi… aapko jahan pata karma hai kar lijie. Arey bhai, ghodi lagegi, light lagegi, dus baajewale honge… Isase kam mein nahi ho sakta.” (Nothing less than Rs 12,000. You can check out in the market. There will be lights, the mare, 10 artists… Can’t do it in less than that.) Rishi Pal’s band has been running for over half a decade and earns him a decent living in and off the marriage season (October to July). His office walls are adorned with blown-up posters of his band with artists clad in the traditional band attire, gracefully holding their instruments. But nothing of the band, he so takes pride in, belongs to him except the clothes and the lights. None of the artistes are permanent. He can’t afford their salaries in the off-season. No instrument belongs to him, the artists carry their own. The mare is outsourced, the generator as well. “You see, it’s all about organising. We can’t have permanent staff. There are hardly any artistes in Delhi. So we have to call artistes from states as far has UP, Haryana and Bihar. We hire artists on contract in season and pay them per ceremony,” says Rishi Pal.
And what do the artists get paid by the band owner who charges above 10 grands for a ceremony? A paltry Rs 125 in peak season and Rs 50 when there isn’t enough work. “This is not for livelihood. We do it because we love and live music,” says Mohammed Munna, a band member. Twenty-eight-year-old Munna belongs to Nawanagar in Patna and has been in Delhi for over a month for work. He plays the trumpet. His love for music as the sole force behind his adventures to Delhi sounds true, as half the year he is unemployed, living on his miserable savings; or sometimes pulling rickshaw, selling vegetables or doing odd jobs here and there to sail through the lean season. But he doesn’t much regret his life. “I learnt the instrument from my father. If my son wants to learn, I’ll definitely teach him,” he says.
Mohammed Salim, the lead artist of the band, is just 25 but has been playing for the past 11 years. Coming to Delhi from Sonepur in Bihar is more of an excursion than a question of livelihood. “You think this can feed me through the year! I used to sing in school and everyone used to praise me. Ever since then it has been a passion,” says Salim. But the excursion to Delhi is not all fun. “In smaller ceremonies like ‘doli’ etc we sometimes have to go as far as 20 kilimetres and at 1am or 2am there is no way we can get a public transport. This means we have to walk back carrying our heavy instruments. But that’s life,” he says. Salim recently got married and his friends played for free in the ceremony. “I couldn’t have been able to afford this huge ensemble otherwise,” he admits.
The grey-haired, bidi-smoking old man of the band, Maheswar Ram, hailing from Vaishali, Bihar, conjures up images of someone who has seen and tried all and now has no hope, so cares a damn. Twenty-seven years of fruitless service to music has turned him a bitter man. Blowing smoke like Dev Aanand of Hum Dono, the 49-year-old veteran, who plays the baritone, says, “Bihar mein to koi kam hai nahi. Jhak mar ke yahaan ana padta hai rozi roti ke lie.” (There is no work in Bihar. We are forced to come to Delhi for livelihood.) Bereaved at the age of 15, when his father died, he was forced to take the responsibility of the family and he chose the baritone way. Ask him what he does during the lean season and he gets even bitter, “Nothing.” “You know what! At first, I thought I should tell you I steal,” he adds.
Strangely, amidst all this bitterness and complaints from life there is a touching camaraderie among the band members and a sense of reconciliation and content with whatever they have. In a city that is ever ready to slit your throat in competition, they surprisingly rise above it. Every band member from the lead artist to the one who plays the unglamorous chheda gets paid the same Rs 125.
His ration might run out midway through the year, but he will never lose his breath. The neighbourhood bandwallah will colour many a marriage before his lungs collapse.