As I put my elder one to sleep, I can hear soothing music playing nearby. Against the backdrop of her soft snores, I can hear Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s main naraye mastana playing. It transports me back to the Fall of 2010 when my love for Sufi music was born and cemented.
It was a typically cold evening in Coventry, my first in England. Home felt so far away. I stood facing eastward, how far behind have I left India? The grey skies, the frosty breeze, the lush green gardens surrounding the accommodation, the odd bicycle outside the flat door — nothing felt familiar. Will I be able to last here for one whole year? I will have to, I counselled myself. “Such a large canvas, such a big opportunity,” I repeated to myself, “I’m lucky to be studying abroad.” The journey from Chandigarh to Coventry had been a long one.
Dinner had to be cooked. The nearby supermarket was a ten-minute walk through the woods. On reaching the store, the hunt for my favourite item, bhindi , began. It was one of the few vegetables I could confidently cook.
The aisles of the ‘international section’ were overwhelming, but bhindi was nowhere to be seen. ‘Ladies finger, please’, I requested the saleswoman standing near the counter. ‘What are those?’ she looked at me in bewilderment. ‘Those long, green, finger-shaped vegetables’, I strenuously tried to explain, but in vain.
An Indian-looking girl of roughly my age overheard my futile attempts at procuring bhindi. ‘She’s looking for okra , please’, she said, in practised British accent. To my great relief, I got my prized packet of the vegetable, frozen. Thereafter, began a beautiful friendship with my Indian-looking- okra -saviour, Nida, from Lahore in Pakistan.
In a foreign land, an Indian and a Pakistani girl bonded over bhindi, Bollywood and Bulleh Shah. Nida introduced me to the Sufi line of thought, Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s poetry and profound Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s qawalis . Besides learning economics and marketing, I learnt about Ghulam Ali, Abida Parveen, Alam Lohar, Noor Jehan, Attaullah Khan.
Their magical renditions took me back home, where okra was as much Ladies finger as bhindi was. Yeh jo halka halka suroor hai played on repeat on my weekly supermarket sojourns.
Chupke chupke raat din lulled me to sleep on home-sick nights. Bol mitti deya baweya helped keep things in perspective. Sufism became my little home away from home.
As days became months, Coventry eventually became home. Sufi music was no longer an escape, it became a habit. This habit stayed on when I returned to India.
Years later, the love for Sufism has only grown. Strangely, it now reminds me of the home that never felt familiar when I was there.
As main naraye mastana continues to play in the distant background, I begin to drift into a gentle slumber, just as it used to be a decade ago.
Main wasif-e-bismil hoon, main ronaq-e-mehfil hoon
(Wasif, slayed am I, heart of the crowd)
Ik toota howa dil hoon, main shehar mein veerana
(A broken heart am I, lonely in the city).
seeratsandhu25@yahoo.com
