No road in Kathmandu is safe for cyclists and pedestrians, but the stretch between Bagmati River and Sitapaila is particularly dangerous. [break]
The Balkhu-Kalanki section is the domain of truck drivers. From Kalanki Chowk onwards, bus drivers headed for the highway are kings of the road. Dr. Yonjan probably thought that as long as he did his work with sincerity and to the best of his ability, lived with humility and did no harm to others, he had no need to fear destiny. Death be not proud, sang the metaphysical poet John Donne in the seventeenth century. Dr. Yonjan lived that belief and died with his faith.
Apparently, Dr. Yonjan was as well known in the charmed circle of cognoscenti of Kathmandu Valley as he was respected by fellow conservationists worldwide. Cyberspace is buzzing with tributes from all over the world.
His friends remember him as an achingly nice person to know. The most striking perhaps was a recollection of a neighbor that the noted expert of Red Panda would often go up on the terrace and play guitar for hours. Music is the force that elevates the player and the listener alike to a different plane.
Relative to his felicity with the strings and bow of a violin or the keys of a piano, Albert Einstein was perhaps much more comfortable with the formulae of physics or mathematical equations. But he often claimed, “Life without playing music is inconceivable for me,” and declared, “I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music…I get most joy in life out of music.”
Edward Wadie Said, the Palestinian-American literary theorist and the father of Orientalism (The way intellectual traditions are created and transmitted, “... teaching it, settling it, ruling it, with a certain representation or idea of the Orient defined as being other than the Occident, mysterious, unchanging and ultimately inferior.”)
transformed every discipline he touched.
The element that imparted transformational quality into Said’s work was not just the long hours of self-imposed solitary confinement in his study or lively debates in the public space but his engagement with notes of music. The energetic literary theorist and noted public intellectual was an accomplished classical pianist and remained a music critic of The Nation for several years.
Closer home from Nepal, poet, painter, litterateur, educationist, scholar and the first non-European Nobel laureate from Bengal, Rabindranath Tagore was not only spiritually the Gurudev for Mahatma Gandhi, among others, but the founder of robindrosongit—a blend of Bowl soul, classical ragas and folk tunes. He even improvised and perfected a traditional string instrument.
The observation that music is the universal language is somewhat trite. So are mediums of fine art, algebraic equations, geometric proportions, sculpture, architecture and a host of other forms of expression. However, there is something in music that differentiates it from all other forms of art.
For players and listeners alike, music satiates the craving of the mind, body, heart and soul, all at the same time. A young musician claimed in a private conversation with finality in his tone, “After a point, the player becomes one with the instrument, and everything else ceases to exist: It is pure ecstasy.” Perhaps that is the point when truth gets revealed. “After playing piano,” Einstein’s sister Maja said of the great scientist, he would get up saying, “There, now I’ve got it.”
Of his closest encounter with the idea of the supernatural, committed socialist, celebrated statesman, lifelong revolutionary and noted atheist BP Koirala says that it occurred when he heard Ravi Shankar play sitar after a long and exhausting workday. Sitar, like the veena of Saraswati, is the musical instrument of gods, but similar experience is aroused by the one-string ktara of Bowl singers in Bengal, the biwa lute of Japan or the humble sarangi of the Gaines in the Gandak Basin of Central Nepal. When the musical instrument and the musician become one, it does not really matter whether its blow, beat or string doing the magic.
CASTE IN MUSIC
The caste system has stigmatized music to a certain extent. Brahmans chant shlokas. The recitation is sometimes in rhythm and it can be pleasing to hear. Every word pronounced has music of its own. But Brahmans are known for the penance of silence, not the worship of sound.
King Prithvi, the chieftain from Gorkha and the first Shah King of Nepal, ordained that songs could enfeeble the resolve of a warrior. Kshetris are free to swear and clank of swords is supposed to be music to their ears.
Unlike the Malla kings of yore, none of the Shah, Rana or their clansmen is known for playing musical instruments. Mahendra supposedly composed poetry. Birendra painted. Gyanendra purportedly wrote songs. If only they had spared sometime from the pressures of statecraft to play musical instruments!
If clatter of metal on metal is the accompanying music for the exploits of a Kshetriya, the clinking of coins is supposed to produce the sweetest sound for the Vaishyas of the world. In the Hindu world order, the “normal” singing and dancing is for Shudras and the casteless ethnicities.
Only the untouchables are entrusted with the task of playing musical instruments that invariably has something to do with “unclean” animal carcasses, whether as a string from the gut or the drum made from its hide. Perhaps part of the reason behind the general lack of creativity among Nepalis is that so few of us are taught to play musical instruments. Life of the mind without a healthy love for music is difficult to imagine.
Kathmandu hosted two literary festivals one after another. Jazzmandu has created a niche for itself. Dr. Franck Bernede, a French ethnomusicologist (yes, that word is a mouthful and not the least musical too) and cello maestro, wondered aloud why Kathmandu has not yet begun hosting Himalayan or South Asian regional concerts of traditional musical instruments.
The occasion was an informal jam session of young music enthusiasts and established players alike from here and abroad at his residence on a fine autumnal afternoon last week.
For committed individuals, one life is seldom enough to pursue one’s passion. Dr. Yonjan probably could have saved the time he spent playing guitar and produced yet another scholarly paper for the refereed journal of biodiversity, wildlife conservation or ecology and economy of protecting endangered species.
But the fragrance of his life and the aesthetics of his work would have been a lot different were it not for his passion for music.
It would take years of collective effort to rise above prejudices of the casteist social structure. The time to begin is now. Does anyone know how to play Raga Sahamati on the Bansuri flute? In the language of musicians, it would be shear “bliss”—attainment of perfect joy akin to being in heaven—to hear it in these tumultuous times.
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