Alone in the crowd

The drumming in your heart sometimes syncs with the beating of a drum. The first time you are near one, you will wonder, in awe -- what is this awful sound that is like noise, but creates rhythm. Yes, rhythm. Soon, it begins to merge with the beating of your heart and your adrenalin will gush, then you gush and you linger, listening.

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Always, the massive nagara drums have been the messenger from the kings. To summon people to court, to listen to disseminate. Every time I walk past the Hanuman Dhoka, I look up at the nagara and wonder how many good and bad news it must have been messenger to. But I have never heard a nagara play -- only in the films, often two men flanking one another, beating down.

What came closest to drums for me were the madal. Growing up, the schools I went to always had one. Then the homes of neighbours who liked to sing some evenings. Whenever I lived with my grandfather, there was his tabala to touch. With no ear for playing music, I would still hold the instrument and slap it, creating light sounds.

Not like that, my grandfather would say. If you want to learn, sit down and I will show you. Again, the girl in me with no ear for music, never took the offer.

On the school ground the beatings transformed into something that reminded me of long, hot mornings, when the students would stand in a file and march to the beating of the drum. Intriguing how sounds become tied to memory too.

Read also: The light of feet, Pratibha Tuladhar

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Year after year, I shoulder my backpack and walk through crowded old Kathmandu during the Indra Jatra festival. I like being alone in the crowd. You are not alone at all, but alone among strangers -- the perfect place for introverts to hide. No surveillance. Just strangers, walking past you, sometimes shoving you without apology. The sauntering is lit up with a refreshing interruption when a troupe of young local musicians walk past you. Young women and men with the dhimay (drums) and the khin (cymbals). The first time I watched a girl perform at the dhimay, my heart beat quickly, my jaws stretched into a grin, I tried to conceal it and a knot quickly formed in my throat, moving up to my eyes to be released as tears.

I followed one such group across the town one time. I caught up with one Yuvraj Shahi, who told me he and his friends had been training girls in the community to play. "बहिनीहरुलाई पनि गर्न दिनु पर्यो नि," he told me. Our sisters should also get a chance.

Year after year, I visit the jatra and stalk one of these troupes. Every year, more girls are out in the evening playing, pausing to perform in circles and then playing their way to another part of town.

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Septuagenarian Nuchhe Bahadur Dangol is a charmer. He stands before the crowd in Kirtipur, making eye contact with the audience, smiling as his arms work at the dhimay. The crowd responds by hollering his beats back to him, their fingers meeting at the centre of their palms in soft but sure beats.

These are my students who will take forward my legacy, he tells the crowd, pointing at a group of young men. And these are my students, he says, gesturing at the orchestra -- comprising boys and girls at the flute.

Read also: Wine and women during Yenya, Pratibha Tuladhar

Just before he starts, I lean in and say Namaste and wonder if he remembers our meeting over a decade ago at the Nepal Music School. What is that feeling you get when your heart understands something good but does not know how to react, so it keeps beating?

As I watch him perform before hundreds of fans in Kirtipur’s Baag Bhairav, I start wondering about his youth. This man, who stood against the society he came from, so he could teach a woman how to play the drum. It must not have been easy. Nuchhe Sir’s first female student was an American woman and his guthi ostracised him because he had taught a woman. He had breached the community code in more than one way: he had taught a foreigner who “ate cow meat” and he had taught a woman.

In the Newa community, music often remains confined to the tole within which they originate and are played, and certain pieces are not shared between tole as they are “sacred”. By taking his heritage outside of that realm, Nuchhe Sir had transgressed. And his punishment was that when his father passed away, none of his guthiyar appeared, thus telling him that he was now an outsider. A social outcast. What his guthiyar did not realise at that time was that they were not dealing with a normal guy.

Nuchhe Sir was not going to be deterred. In the days to come, he would set up a music school in his own home, teaching girls and boys and later at Nepal Music School.

As I watched him from my corner in the crowd last week in Kirtipur, I thought how it took one lone man to hand over the drums to the girls. And how by doing that, he had given so many girls in Kathmandu, the possibility of creating their own rhythm, of merging the one of your heart to that of your hands, the possibility of creating sounds for your own ears and for the audience, of drawing attention to themselves and saying, look, this rhythm is mine, too.

And just like that, my eyes welled up in tears. Of gratitude. It often takes one to be alone in the crowd to get so many others on the same side.

Read also: Girls just want to have fun, Aria Parasai

Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.