Goddess Saraswati depicted playing the veena
Goddess Saraswati depicted playing the veena
Narada
by
Don Stockard
Ananta, a boy of twelve, worked steadily in the field, weeding row after row and chanting softly to himself. He stood up and putting both hands on the small of his back, arched forward, relieving his aching back. He surveyed the field. The vegetables were progressing well. His father would be pleased. It was the first time his father had given him complete responsibility for a field. Ananta was determined to see it prosper.
He was about to bend over to continue his task when he spotted a figure approaching along the path, which ran by the edge of the field. His brow wrinkled slightly as he stared. Other than an occasional neighbor or one of his own family, no one used the path. As the man drew closer, Ananta realized it was no one he knew. Instead of a hoe or other farm tool, the man carried a vina* over his shoulder. Curious, Ananta continued to watch as the man approached.
"Hello!" The man called out and halted in front of Ananta. He was tall with fair features. His head was shaved except for a tress of hair tied in a bun at the back of his head. His robe was a dark red, reaching from his shoulders to his calves. He wore sandals dyed to match his robe.
Ananta felt self-conscious, barefoot and wearing his simple dhoti.
The man stared, smiling, at him, waiting for him to reply.
"Are–are you a traveling minstrel?" Ananta stammered and immediately felt foolish. "I suppose you could call me that."
"Are you going to a festival?" Ananta's initial nervousness was somewhat abated by the man's calm, friendly response.
The minstrel shrugged. "No. Let us say that I am simply traveling."
Ananta glanced at the minstrel's rich attire and wondered if he were the son of a maharaja.
The minstrel read the question in Ananta's glance. "No, I am not wealthy. I am just a simple minstrel. Robes such as these are a symbol of my trade." He laughed. "But tell me, what are you doing?"
Ananta swept his arm toward the field. "I'm weeding the vegetable plot. The crop is starting nicely. If I can clear it of weeds and see that it has enough water, it will yield a good harvest."
The minstrel nodded and looked around. "It is pleasant here. I have traveled far this morning. I think I will rest for a while. Would you care to join me?"
"Sure." Ananta welcomed the opportunity to give his back a rest. He glanced at the sun. It stood high in the sky to the south. "It is time for food. I have plenty. Would you honor me by sharing it with me?" Ananta had been schooled from his earliest years by example and instruction that the guest is God and that it was incumbent on him to share what he had.
The minstrel laughed. Ananta noted what a deep rich laugh the man had. "Of course, but it is I who am honored. Blessings be upon you for your generosity." Taking the vina off his shoulder, he sat down in the shade of a banyan tree. Ananta fetched his coarse woven pouch, which contained the food.
"We are simple people," he said as he sat down beside the minstrel. "Our food is simple as well." He took out some bread, broke it in two, and gave the larger piece to the minstrel.
"Simple or not, it nourishes the body. And being simple, it nourishes the soul as well. Or so say the gods."
Ananta nodded. He was unaware of the saying to which the minstrel alluded, but did not wish to display his ignorance. He waited until his guest had taken a bite before starting himself. They ate in silence for a while. In addition to the coarse bread, Ananta offered cheese, roasted jackfruit seeds, and a drink made of green mangoes, reputed to be of benefit during hot weather. Ananta always gave his guest the larger portion and did not start until the other had begun.
"Have you ever seen a vina before?" the minstrel asked.
Ananta looked at the instrument. "Yes, at festivals, but never close like this."
The minstrel handed it to Ananta, who took it gingerly. It consisted of a long bamboo fingerboard with strings running over a number of frets. Two gourds, one on each end, served as resonators. Ananta studied it carefully. "It is beautiful."
"Would you like for me to play it?"
Ananta's eyes gleamed. "Yes. Yes, I would. I love music."
The minstrel took the instrument and began to play. Rich tones flowed from the vina. After playing for a while, the minstrel began to chant. He went through raga after raga. Some were familiar to Ananta, others not. He sat transfixed by the beauty that came from the vina and the throat of the minstrel. At times Ananta could not distinguish the two, as though the combination of sounds flowed from one source.
The minstrel paused for a moment. Ananta stared at him silently. He could go on listening forever to the beautiful music. But he felt it would be presumptuous of him to ask the minstrel to continue.
The minstrel read Ananta's desire in the boy's face. "Would you like me to play another raga?"
"Of course!"
"How about the Malkounsa Raga?"
Ananta blinked in surprise. "But–. It is only played at midnight in winter."
The minstrel smiled. "We shall see."
With the first note from the vina, Ananta felt a chill. He actually had to wrap his arms around himself for warmth. He glanced to one side. Darkness obscured the field and the trees. But the music captivated him and he soon lost himself in the melodic sequence and its rhythmic variations. When the final strains of the raga faded away, the sky once again seemed light and the temperature normal.
His eyes wide, Ananta stared at the minstrel.
"What did you think of it?"
"It was incredible. It was so powerful, I actually though it was midnight in winter."
"Perhaps it was. One never knows."
Ananta looked at the vina. "Is it difficult to play?"
The minstrel smiled. "That depends. For those who deem it difficult, it is. For those who do not, it isn't."
Ananta frowned.
"Here." The minstrel offered the instrument to Ananta. "Try it."
Ananta stared open-mouthed at the minstrel. "I–I–"
The minstrel laughed. "You do want to play it, don't you?"
But–"
"You like to chant, is that not true?"
"Yes. Yes, I do." Ananta did in fact like to chant. He often chanted as he worked and always looked forward to a festival, where there would be music.
"Then music is already in your soul. Take the vina and try it!"
Ananta took the instrument.
"Go ahead."
Ananta held the instrument as he had seen the minstrel do. He glanced at the minstrel, who nodded. He drew his fingers across the strings and started in surprise at the rich tone that emanated from it. The minstrel laughed. "See? It did not bite you. For you it will be easy to learn. Here. Let me show you." The minstrel gave instructions to the boy. Ananta, all his doubts gone, absorbed the information and skills with unprecedented speed. It was as though he had always known how to play the instrument and the talent was suddenly reawakening.
"There you go," the minstrel said. "It's not so hard, is it?"
"It's your instruction. Not me!"
The minstrel grinned broadly. "Come. I have taken much of your day. Let us weed your plot. There is more to life than ragas."
Ananta blinked at the minstrel without moving.
"Come." The minstrel rose. "Let us go." Ananta scrambled after him. Soon the two were busy weeding the rows of vegetables, chanting as they worked. By the time the sun was low, they had completed the task.
"Thank you." Ananta knelt before the minstrel and touched his feet.
"Ah, my child." The minstrel lifted him. "You have a very special gift. In addition to working the fields, I want you to play the vina. You will bring joy and much more to many people."
"But I have no vina. I–I guess I could try to make one."
"In time you will be able to. But it is not necessary now. Here." The minstrel handed the instrument to Ananta.
Ananta's mouth dropped open and his eyes expanded in surprise. "I–I– But I can't take it. It's yours. You are a minstrel. What will you do without your instrument?"
"I will have no trouble producing another. This one is for you." The two stared silently at each other for several minutes—minutes that Ananta would treasure for the rest of his life. Then the minstrel pranammed.** Ananta, turned, and walked away.
Ananta's shock turned to surprise and then to curiosity as he watched the minstrel depart. There was something not quite right about the minstrel. Something he had not noticed before. Ananta struggled to put his finger on it. Suddenly he realized that the minstrel was casting no shadow. He was walking south along the path. The sun near the western horizon would throw his shadow to the left. There was none. He glanced at his own shadow, which stretched out beside him.
A recent rain had left a few mud puddles that had evaporated, leaving damp patches of earth. Ananta glanced at one nearby, one the minstrel had walked across as he left. There were no tracks. He started to run after the minstrel, but his feet seemed rooted to the ground. It was only after the minstrel was out of sight that his feet functioned normally.
Ananta looked at the vina, reassuring himself that it was still there. He played a simple raga. Its rich tones were as beautiful as ever. Putting the vina over his shoulder, he gathered the hoes and food pouch, and trudged home.
Ananta never told anyone of his meeting with the wandering minstrel, or how he obtained the vina. He continued to farm. The vegetable plot where he had met the minstrel remained a special place for him. Over the years, it always produced a plentiful harvest and, remarkably, there were never any weeds.
True to the minstrel's injunction, Ananta faithfully played the vina. Talented from the beginning, his skill increased with time, until it eclipsed that of any other musician in the region. Word of his prowess spread and people came from afar to hear him play. All agreed that Narada, the divine minstrel and son of Brahma, must have indeed blessed him.
~~~~
Copyright by
Don Stockard
* vina (veena) - a musical stringed instrument of India, made of rosewood or ebony, consisting of a long, hollow, fretted stick to which one, two, or three gourds are attached to increase the resonance.
** pranammed (pranam) - South Asia - polite greeting: a respectful gesture of greeting made by pressing the palms together and often followed by bending to touch the other person's feet.
Copy of Painting of the Goddess Saraswati by Raja Ravi Varma
Public Domain Image
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