The song of Sankranti

As the Telugus celebrate the harvest festival, the last remaining icons of Sankranti storytelling continue their annual winter visits singing the songs of God

It was the first day of the Dhanur Masam and unlike some of the more spiritually inclined women, who had woken up in pitch darkness, taken a bath with cold water and had gone to the Shiva temple with their wet, streaming hair, I am all bleary eyed and groggy.

I walk into the kitchen instead, light up the gas stove and mount the pressure cooker on one burner and milk on the other. Slowly, the kitchen turns warm and the air is fragrant with the aroma of filter coffee. That is when the Haridaasu’s sonorous voice floats from the street, five floors below. ‘Nanu Brovamani Cheppave Sitamma Thalli,’ he sings. I throw open the balcony door and step out into the winter chill.

‘Nanu Brovamani Cheppave Sitamma Thalli,’ the lines from Ramadasu Kirtana waft in again. Now vigorous, now lusty and energetic, they seem to belong to this man, as much as they belonged to the poet some eons ago. Balancing the pumpkin shaped Akshay Patra on his head and playing the thamboora resting on his shoulder, he claps the cymbals with the other hand. I am finally jolted out of my inertia.

“Why Sita?” I want to ask this brown faced man, whose apparel consists of a saffron dhoti, a matching turban and a garland thrown around his neck. His feet are adorned by silver anklets and he reminds me of sage Narada from my childhood Amar Chitra Katha comics. “Why does your Ramadasu need Sita to seek Rama’s protection? Isn’t his faith enough?’ I want to ask.

But the Sage Narada from my childhood comics has already started moving, making giant strides, the song still bursting from his throat, the gentle thamboora strains and the rhythmic cymbals spilling on to the quiet winter street, as though in silent symphony. As I am about to go inside, a little girl comes running from her house, and touches the Haridasu’s feet.

The girl’s mother comes with a bowlful of rice grains. The Haridasu bends on his knees and the woman empties the contents into the Akshayapatra. He blesses them with another song. Deep within me, my arguments quell. “Tomorrow,” I promise myself, “I will talk to the Haridaasu.”

“But Haridaasus don’t talk,” my father tells me that evening, “They are bound by silence, by Mauna Vratam” Of course, I know that! For hadn’t I seen them since the last eight years, making their annual winter visits— devotion and music flowing un-interrupted from their heart, not stopping anywhere to seek alms, but nevertheless accepting the offerings of devotees with humility and grace? But I want to talk - strike a conversation.

The next day, I am ready, caffeinated and all. With the sleep out of my system, I rush down when I hear his familiar voice. He sings the same song again. But the questions of the previous day leave. I want to talk about the mundane, instead. He stares at the recorder in my hand and pauses.
“You perform on stage?” I finally ask him.
“Ammagaru, they call us when they have a cultural festival.”
“And how much do they pay you?”
“If there are five of us, they pay five hundred per hour,” he tells me.
“And how many of you from your village do this?” I ask him.
“Ammagaru, there are about 150 of us and we move between Visakhapatnam, Vizianagaram and Anakapalle. After the Dhanurmaasam is over, we go to Bhadrachalam.”
He pauses, as though in thought.
“What do you do after the festive season?” I ask him. “Some of us cultivate crops. The others wait for the festive season to come again.”
“What do you do?”I ask him.
“Nothing Ammagaru. Age and too much walking have made these knees weak.”
“You have children?” I ask.
“Yes Ammagaru. One boy. He is studying B.Pharmacy.”
“He doesn’t want to become a Haridaasu?”
“I don’t want him to,” he says with finality, “We are the last of the Haridaasulu Ammagaru. After us there will be none.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Forty seven,” he mutters.
“That is certainly not old,” I want to say.
But he starts to move. The robustness returns to his strides and song. I feel an overwhelming melancholy. I am reminded of the Sankranti tales, my grandmother would tell us - about the Jangam Devaras, who would walk down the dark streets on the eve of Sankranti and wake up the entire village, about the Bhatrajus who had the ability to sprout poetry at the drop of a hat, about the Komma Daasaris who would sing Bhajans sitting on the branch of a tree, about the Pittala Doralu who keep the entire village in splits. Poets, singers and artists, whose presence never touched our lives and whose absence perhaps we brush off in the most nonchalant manner.
The Haridassu’s song echoes from the adjacent street.
“Tomorrow,” I promise myself stepping into the lift, “I will bring down my kids to listen to the Haridaasu’s song.”