Namita Waikar

Sharmila Joshi

Editor

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“Every year we come
here for a month in the summer to earn some money,” says Shanti, as she pulls her
colourful dupatta
closer to her forehead and nudges her nine-year-old grandson Amarjeet to continue
playing the ravanahatha.
“Bajao, bajao
[play it, play it],” she tells him. He moves the bow over the
strings, but without much enthusiasm. 

We meet Shanti
and Amarjeet (in the cover photo on top) on our way to a mountain-view point; they’re sitting on a raised
platform by the side of the road in Naddi village, around three kilometres from
Mcleodganj in Himachal
Pradesh, a little above Dharamshala.

Shanti tells
us, a little apologetically, that “the boy’s [Amarjeet’s] grandfather is very
good at playing the ravanahatha, but he is sick today so could not
make it. We have always played this instrument and sung songs too. But my
grandson does not like [to play] it. These days, they say children should
study. So he goes to the school [in our village].”

Which class are
you in, I ask Amarjeet. “Chouthi mein [in
the fourth],” he answers with a smile. 

The ravanahatha
– literally, ‘ the hand of Ravana’
– is a two-stringed instrument. It has a bowl at one end made of
coconut shell and goat hide. The player holds the half-coconut end against his
midriff and points the long bamboo stick outward. There is one metal string
along the length and one made of animal hair. The bow is moved across them to
make music.

The instrument
is mentioned in the Ramayana. Ravana, the legend says, as
obeisance to Lord Shiva, makes the ravanahatha with one of his 10 heads, his arm
and some of his own hair. Hanuman then brings it to India from Lanka. In a linking back across geographies and time,
Dinesh Subasinghe, a composer and violinist from Sri Lanka, is now reportedly
reviving the instrument, and has used it in many of his compositions.

In Rajasthan,
folk musicians, many of them from nomadic tribes, play the ravanahatha.
Shanti’s family of agricultural labourers lives in Mundwa
village of Nagaur district in the state&#39;s Marwar region. Along with her son Raju, her husband, her
daughter-in-law Sukli, and her grandson Amarjeet, she comes to Himachal Pradesh every
year in mid-April and stays till mid-May, when there isn’t much farm work in
the village. They travel to Jodhpur by bus, take a train to Bhatinda in Punjab
and then a bus to Dharamshala. This one-way journey costs them Rs. 300 per
person.

Where do they
stay when they come to Dharamshala? “We get a room for 2,500 rupees a month. All
five of us live there and cook our meals there too.” On any given day, the musicians
can earn Rs. 400 to 500, performing Hindi film song tunes. Today, they’ve split
up into two groups: Shanti and Amarjeet in one place and Raju and his wife Sukli
in another.

The musicians
compete with the breathtaking views of the Dhauladhar mountain range and the enchanting
Buddhist monasteries for the attention of tourists, who whiz past them on
sightseeing missions in cars, taxis or on motorbikes. Every day, they play
their instrument at a fixed spot, usually on the way to a famous site or very
close to it. If they’re lucky, tourists will get out of their speeding vehicles, or those ambling along on foot will wait a while to listen, and give them some
money.

We meet another
family of migrants from Rajasthan on the road to the Namgyal Monastery in the Tsuglagkhang complex, that
has the home of the Dalai Lama. This family has an Amarjeet too, but one who plays
melodious tunes on the ravanahatha. His wife Manju and their two-year-old
son Raju sit next to him on a green plastic sheet. The steel thali in front of them has a few 10-rupee notes and some
coins – their earnings from the tourists passing by. A few feet behind them the
edge of the road plunges into the steep slope of the Kangra valley. 

Amarjeet and
Manju are also agricultural labourers from Gomabari hamlet in Rajasthan&#39;s Sri Ganganagar district. They spent Rs. 1,200 on the return
fare of three persons from their home to Dharamshala this year. The monthly rent
for their room here is Rs. 3,000. “We cook in the room on an electric heater.
We brought provisions with us so we don’t have to spend much here,” says Manju.
With a daily income of about Rs. 500 and after deducting their expenses on travel
and lodging, they make around Rs. 10,000 in a month.

“We will do khet majuri when
we go back to Ganganagar,” says Amarjeet, a little wistfully. He stops talking
as tourists start to gather around. Then he moves his bow across the strings of
the ravanahatha
and plays the tune of a popular Hindi film song. 

Pardesi,
pardesi, jaana nahin mujhe chhodake...

O stranger, stranger,
don’t go don’t leave me…

Reluctantly, we
do.

Migrant musicians in the mountains

மலைகளில் தஞ்சமடையும் புலம்பெயர் இசைக்கலைஞர்கள்

পাহাড়ের পরিযায়ী বাজনদাররা

ପାହାଡ଼ର ବିସ୍ଥାପିତ ସଙ୍ଗୀତଜ୍ଞ

पहाड़ों में प्रवासी संगीतकारों से एक मुलाक़ात

پہاڑوں میں مہاجر موسیقار

पर्वतराजीतले स्थलांतरित संगीतकार

Dharamshala

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Migrant musicians in the mountains

Agricultural labourers from Rajasthan travel to Dharamshala in Himachal Pradesh in April-May every year to play the ravanahatha, a popular centuries-old folk instrument, and earn a seasonal income

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