Paraman, The Street Violinist: Memory of a Man

 

(The folk violin of Pulluvas; image source: Kannanshanmugam,shanmugamstudio, Kollam, Wikipedia)

The Village Visitors

 Those were times when things were less complex than they now are. We lived in a bucolic countryside where everyone knew everyone else. The only outsiders who frequented the place were visiting relatives, a bunch of regularly appearing street vendors, the postman, the Gurkha (a man from Nepal who would be paid Rs 10 per month by each family for keeping vigil in the village during nights*), and our very own exclusive beggars. We knew them as they made rounds on almost expected dates and times.

Paraman’s Song

Paraman, the street violinist, had positioned himself between an artist and a beggar. In our culture, the members of the Pulluva community, who made exquisite music using two delightful musical instruments- a single-string local fiddle and a round mud pot with a tight wire wound across it- were the official local musicians. They would come to sing in our houses on every occasion of happiness- childbirth, marriage, girls attaining puberty, and so on. In their songs, they would bless the newborn or the bride or seek favour from the gods for the family's well-being.

Though Paraman belonged to the Pulluva community, his singing was awful. His mental state was fragile, and people thought he was crazy.      

Those were the days when individuals whom we today would have called mentally ill were accepted into society without much fuss unless they were violent. People would casually remark that this person is a little crazy, but let them merge with social life. Children would sometimes tease them and would be immediately scolded by adults.

Paraman was that kind of a member of our village society. Once in a month or so, he would appear with his fiddle at every house in the village. He had a broken fiddle with its once-real string replaced with a thin jute twine used in the local grocery shop. Paraman did not mind that no music would come out of that string. He would move his bow to and fro- a stick actually that he believes is a real bow- upon the rope tied to the fiddle. And he would sing a song that no one has ever been able to make out for what it is. The song ended as soon as it began, the first line was the last, too. Then, he would wait for my mom or dad to give him a one-rupee coin.

Month after month, we went through this same ritual. Paraman would sometimes smile at us children. He did not talk much, though. We believed that we would see Paraman every month, our entire life. It was not possible to think otherwise. In our tiny world, the home where we lived as children was to be our only home ever. 

Faded But Not Forgotten

In his prime, before his mental illness manifested, our villagers remembered him as a fine singer and musician. When we children saw him, he had reached middle age. He wrapped an ankle-length white cloth around his waist, which had turned yellow from long use, and wore no shirt. His teeth were blackened from smoking beedis, the local cigar. Yet he had a sweet black smile for us, children.

I moved away from the village to study at a college in the city and forgot Paraman. By that time, his visits were also infrequent.

I don’t know what happened to him, but I wish to believe that his old age was not miserable. When I chance upon a fragment of memory that encapsulates him, this wish surfaces- I could have queried more about him and known where he lived and with whom he lived. Was he all alone? Was there anyone to take care of him? Like leaves from a tree, people fall away, and new leaves grow. This is what life is all about. Where do the winds take those fallen leaves? Where will it take me when my turn comes?

(* Gorkhas were migrants from Nepal. They had big moustaches and military-type beret caps. They wore military-coloured shirts and trousers. Gorkha is a district in Nepal, and people from Nepal are generally known as Gorkhas in India. There is a Gorkha regiment in the Indian army renowned for their bravery. So, sometimes, retired military men from that regiment took up security jobs in different parts of India. Men from Nepal with big moustaches would come to our villages, with army experience or without, which nobody would know and care to check, and they would offer night vigil duty for the villagers for a small monthly fee. They would roam around during night hours blowing a whistle, and the villagers would sleep in the comfort that the Gorkha would protect them.)