The focal point, however, is a wiry boy, straight-faced and composed, playing a sarangi and singing even as he is drowned out by regular bursts of laughter, applause and whistling.[break]
The boy is young Rubin Gandharva, belting out rousing songs during charged mass gatherings at the height of the 2006 protests. This scene, repeated many times during the popular protests of the 2006 People´s Movement, is among the most evocative images of the Jana Andolan. Rubin’s songs – witty, eloquent, and filled with frustration – were always greeted with deafening cheers from the huge crowds.
That a teenage Gandharva, a “low” caste even within the Dalit grouping, was the centre of attention at such a significant moment can be seen from any number of perspectives. On one extreme, it can be said that Rubin was simply manipulated by political forces looking to further their own aims. On the other hand, it can be argued that the prominence given to Rubin reflects the Jana Andolan´s values: as a movement seeking to give a voice to previously voiceless people, it was best represented by a young Dalit boy. There can be never-ending debates about which of these positions, or where between these poles, the truth lies.
Perhaps more relevant, however, is the question of how Rubin himself sees the matter. What resonance did the Movement have for him as a Gandharva, as a Dalit, and as a citizen? Why did he lend his voice to it? And why were people – whether politicians, student leaders or the masses of protestors – so keen to hear him sing?
Rubin has a clear view of his role in the movement. Nor is he surprised by how popular his songs were, both with protestors and with those listening at home. “Maile ta janatako bhawana gaidieko,” he says. “I took the outpouring of the people as they came into the street and sang their thoughts … People don´t just clap for everyone. I was singing what the people already felt. That’s why they wanted to listen to me.”
Yet, Rubin was not merely mirroring the voices of the homogenized “janata” in his songs. He was also commenting on politics, on his interactions with the state, and raising his voice against the injustices he experienced in society: “Samajma hune utpidan ra thicho-micho birudha meropani awaz uthyaho, pakkai ho,” he says.
The story of how Rubin came to voice the fervor of 2006 begins much earlier. When he was about ten, Rubin ran away from home in the hill village of Ampipal in Gorkha, hitching a ride under the seat of a Sajha bus. He was driven out by a combination of personal tensions in his family and by the constant struggle to make ends meet. But he was also drawn to Kathmandu by the almost mythic terms in which he had heard it described.
“Kathmandu is still a city of dreams for people in the villages,” he says, adding that he also “wanted to see this Kathmandu built of gold, silver, diamonds and pearls.”
On arriving in Kathmandu, Rubin ended up at the Purano Bus Park near the Khula Manch. Like so many other young boys, he found a job as a khalasi on a bus.
Though he was alone in an alien city, Rubin speaks of this time without bitterness. In fact, he speaks of it with affection. He was exploring this great new city, slept on a seat in the bus he worked in, and was fed by the bus owner. Most of all, he speaks nostalgically of the leisurely evenings of songs and conversation with his new friends.
Some six months later, Rubin was able to quit the khalasi job when an uncle found him and took him in. It was then that he bought a sarangi. Though he had been singing since he was a child, he had never learnt to play the instrument. But he quickly taught himself some songs and adopted the traditional profession of his Gandharva forefathers. Quick to connect with audiences, Rubin was soon invited to events around town showcasing Gandharva musicians. He also made a decent living playing on Kathmandu’s streets.
As the 2006 protests escalated, Rubin was wandering around the Bhrikuti Mandap with his sarangi. Home to many politically active campuses, the area was a natural point for students to gather and organize. As Rubin wandered about, he remembers some of the students teasingly asking him to play – “La phuchche, ga!” Judging the mood of the gathering, Rubin discarded the usual romantic “prem-maya” crowd pleasers and launched into a different kind of song:
Pakhlas talai, samanti bajiya,
aba tero na udai dhajiya
suna daju bhai garibko chalama sosaka ko dhai
nuna, luga, tela chhaina, mahango rationa
mero umarbhanda budo samanti sasaana
yehi bebasta rahanjel paina saasa pherna
mai budo lagchhu aba yo samatilai khedna
The students loved the song. The crowds got bigger and Rubin´s songs became a staple.
One among many
Compelling as this narrative is, the lyrics and Rubin’s political instincts suggest a maturity beyond his years. Yet, though he was young, Rubin was no stranger to the sense of frustration and urgency that many felt during the movement. Throughout his childhood in Gorkha, he had heard talk of a similar kind. If fact, “pakhlas talai, samanti bajiya” was a song he often heard sung by his grandfather and other old men in his village. This song, like many other such “protest” numbers, was created during the 1979 students uprising. Recounting stories he had heard from his grandfather, Rubin explains that many Gandharvas self-identified as communists during those heady times. As many activists and leaders at the village level were forced underground, the Gandharva musicians played a notable role in the janajagaran efforts.
Familiar figures who roamed from village to village, they were not seen with suspicion by the security forces. With their personal leftist leanings, the Gandharvas mixed political messages into their performances. The sentiment at the time was distinctly anti-Panchayat, says Rubin, remembering another of his grandfather´s favorite numbers:
Yo myadi sarkarle janata lai dhoka dilayo
dhani lai dhana diyo, gariblai reena dilayo
Where did this strong anger against the regime come from? Rubin gives examples of daily day experiences of humiliation which eventually turn to anger. He explains that from time to time, the government ran programs to dole out grain to the needy. One year, the grain provided was not fit for consumption. After receiving this spoilt grain, Rubin´s grandfather made sense of the experience in a song:
gau, chamal, makai, khanay khanchga, na khanay chhan bhokai
sun ko thaali ma, ma pani chharchhu gau yasai pali ma
Kathmandu ko gau ra chamal Khaireni ma khulako
Hera hera garib lai hulako
Sun ko thaali ma, ma pani charchu gau yasai pali ma.
These stories and songs are a part of Rubin´s memories of his grandfather. In this sense, Rubin was no stranger to engaging in political discourse, both as an individual and as a part of a larger movement.
Yet for Rubin, this is not just a familial inheritance from his grandfather. Rather, Rubin sees political engagement as part of the Gandharva legacy.
That legacy begins, according to Rubin, at the inception of the Nepali state as we know it. The Gandharvas are said to have aided Prithvi Narayan Shah in his "unification" bid. Rubin tells the story of how Mani Ram Gainey – who is said to be mentioned in the king’s Dibya Upadesh – went into enemy territories and gathered intelligence for Shah. The story of Mani Ram Gainey is also popular outside Gandharva circles, and is found in many books on the Gandharvas. Later, during the Rana period, the Gandharvas and their songs are credited with fostering a sense of “Nepalipan” throughout the country.
The traditional Gandharva repertoire is usually classified into three broad genres: Karkhas, Ghatanas, and Lok Geet, or folksongs. Karkhas are songs praising the kings, prime ministers and brave warriors. Ghatanas describe and comment on real-life events, including major battles, the burning of Singha Durbar, or the story of a father who murdered his daughter to pay off his gambling debts. Through these first two genres, the Gandharva are closely tied to the state-building project. It is, however, difficult to find published work exploring this relationship from the point of view of the Gandharvas themselves. Further, popular discourse rather abruptly disregards the Gandharva-state connection after 1951.
Rubin´s understanding of the “facts” is rather different. Through his grandfather, he has vivid anecdotes of the political views and activism of the Gandharvas in and around Gorkha in 1979. He also emphasizes that there were similar engagements in 1951, 1990, 2006, and during the relatively calm stretches between these episodic upheavals.
Why then is this aspect of the Gandharva story untold and unwritten? Rubin believes that much of the problem lies in how the Gandharvas are positioned in the larger socio-economic hierarchy.
Compelled to work as roaming musicians who eke out a basic living on whatever little they are given, Gandharvas must play what audiences desire. The most requested numbers are, unsurprisingly, songs of passionate love, heartrending tales of separated lovers, and well-loved folksongs. As contemporary audiences hardly want to hear Karkhas glorifying Mahendra or Jung Bahadur, Gandharvas’ links to the state are neatly shelved as mere historical anecdotes. Meanwhile, the kinds of songs Rubin sang during the Jana Andolan don’t have the same impact on a routine day as they do in the midst of mass movements. Indeed, they are neither as compelling nor as relevant when radical change does not appear imminent.
Economic compulsions are another reason why the Gandharvas have been unable to organize as an identity group.
“We make noise for a few days but we’re ignored,” says Rubin, “those in power know that we´ll give up quickly because we have to work to eat.”
The other problem, he says, is one of size. The Gandharva community is a relatively small one, officially estimated to include fewer than 6,000 people (though some are skeptical about this number). They are also scattered across the country. (It must be noted here that Rubin refers to the communities in the central mid-hills, and specifically in Gorkha, when he speaks of everything the Gandharvas have done.) Rubin argues that they are not taken seriously because they don’t have the numbers to take out large protests that “fill Tundikhel.”
Of course, the Dalit community, which brings together much larger numbers of people under a broad umbrella category, is far more significant politically. But the Gandharvas rank low even within that hierarchy. As Rubin concisely puts it, “Dalit bhitraka pani bahunharu hunchhan” – “There are Bahuns even among Dalits.”
Overall, Rubin sees little progress in the state’s orientation, especially in the extension of services for the Gandharvas. Further, he finds that though many articles, interviews and hefty Ph D theses are regularly published on the Gandharvas, these are not used to benefit the Gandharvas themselves.
Yet, Rubin is far from cynical. He is by no means satisfied, but he feels this is a general trend in Kathmandu.
“Though Kathmandu is more bustling now than when I first came, I think there’s much more frustration, too,” he says.
These disappointments are personal to some extent. Yet Rubin says he has few regrets about his personal trajectory to date. Instead, his frustrations stem more from the societal space his community is forced to occupy. Nevertheless, Rubin describes himself as a citizen with love for and duties to his country. It was as a citizen, rather than a Gandharva or a Dalit, that he understood his role in the People’s Movement.
Yet Rubin does not feel alone in this endeavor, saying that “from their own places, the Gandharva Jat has raised their voices in Nepali history.”
“There were many Rubin Gandharvas,” he says, “I just got a bigger stage.”
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