Once upon a time folk music enriched everyday life

Last week we recorded some classical music at the studio, layering pre-recorded songs with instruments. The artistes were taut, hellishly focused, bent on proving their professional mettle.

Then came a piercing yodel — “Ramaneero! — oh lovely woman”! The taal was a perky tattoo. No one knew the raag. Carnatic Sankarabharanam in disguise? Hindustani Bilawal spiced up? “Do-re-mi-fa- so-la-ti” dyed desi?
 
Suddenly, sunlight poured in, the soundproof room rang with glee, warmth suffused the freezing studio. The flautist beamed, the drummer smiled, the violinist chuckled, and the recordist became animated. The artistes began to play with gusto, adding little cheeky frills of their own, a jaunty twirl here, a frisky beat there. Their body language shouted freedom. They were having fun. Music became adventure.
 
We know all about the folk effect on urban musicians. Kumar Gandharv is famous for his Malwa infusions. Pandit Ravishankar’s Rasiya is a lilting dream. My guru MS Subbulakshmi would often hum the tune she picked up from a street musician strumming an ektara. Ultimate classicist Varadachariar, named “Tiger” for his majesty, loved the village song about the lovely girl pounding paddy!

And what would our Bollywood music makers do without folk tunes? Look at Rehman’s range — Kuchi kuchi rakkamma straight from Tamil streets to Sufi folk in Chaiyya Chaiyya. Salil Chowdhury’s Russian and East European folk strains… remember Dil tadap tadap ke keh raha hai? Hear the folk drums rolling in classy Naushad’s “Dukh bhare din beete re bhaiyya”!
 
Today we may be reduced to tracing folk music in other genres. In my childhood, it was part of daily life. Grandma sang of butter-thief Krishna as she churned curd, servants sang of green fields while they cleaned rice, women rolling papads in the hot afternoons cleverly improvised medleys on the spot — exchanging playful innuendoes, even insults.  
 
The old Madras street where I lived was a “music hall” so to speak. The man with the bull clanging its bell played a hand drum as he begged for alms. “Cross the Lanka!” the monkey man carolled. If the monkey baulked, he hurled a curse, also in tune. The birdseller ambled along, strung with fluttery cages, blowing the harmonies of a whole avian orchestra on his hand-whittled whistle. The “Govinda” man rolled on the street from end to end, repeating a three-notes slogan. An old codger tweaked an older tune on his one-stringed coconut shell violin. An ancient nadaswaram piped majestic tunes by the hour, to be rewarded with small change. At Dussera, a bevy of girls danced the traditional kummi in the front yard of every house. 
 
Each street peddler — from bangle man to spinach lady — had a song and a musical cry announcing their progress down the street. The Muslim vendor of attar, his miniature bottles stored lovingly in a tin box, proclaimed his monthly visit with a couplet — a Tamil version of a middle-eastern tune. We called him Omar Khayyam!
 
Today film songs have replaced folk songs in the collective unconscious. And I ask: can Lata Mangeshkar’s Kesariya baalam replace the original?
 
Once, on a trip to Chamba Valley in Himachal Pradesh, I realised how folk music can bring not only cheer, but solace in times of sorrow, strength during national, global tragedies, and bonding across age, region and generations. That was when I heard my friend Shanta Serbjeet Singh — whom I had seen as the epitome of suave Delhi culture until then — singing a pahadi dhun, just like that, spontaneously. It was the lament of the bride leaving home, never to see the Ravi river, or the Chamba Valley, again.

The author is a playwright, theatre director, musician and journalist, writing on the performing arts, cinema and literature