I spent last spring semester studying music in India: I learned the different scales of a raga; how to improvise within the scales; how to not be nervous to improvise because it was god that was singing through me; how to sing in tune with a tanbura; how to sing in time with a tabla; how to listen to Indian classical music performances-- how to be an active participant by grunting and nodding my head in approval; how to sing folk songs and bhajuns; how to sing Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa. I learned about patience-- I spent hours singing single notes, to make sure they were in tune, because they had to be in tune in order to be resonant with the divine. I learned how to sit and listen to a single raga for two hours, and how to appreciate it. I learned how much a tanbura should cost, what a good one looks like, where to go to have it fixed when the gourd cracks in half, and that the best music shop in Benaras is by the Shiva temple, above a store selling mirrored purses and clothing printed with sacred Hindu symbols, in an opium den where hippies with dreadlocks from western countries get high and talk about love. I learned that singing eases the pain of malaria. I learned that Hindus sometimes sing songs for Allah, and Sufis sometimes sing for Hindu gods. I learned how to listen to Qwalli music, and that the purpose of this music is to help Sufi saints reach a point of spiritual ecstasy while listening. I learned that although music allows for powerful communication, the very absence of music is sometimes even more profound.
I spent two months studying light classical and folk songs in Jaipur with Bhavna Bhatt, one month in Benaras studying Khyal with Mangala Tiwari, and one week in Delhi studying Qwalli with Sufi musicians at the Nizammudin Dargah. The Qwalli music had the most profound affect on me. One evening at the Sufi Dargah in Delhi, our host took some other students and me to the nearby Nizammudin shrine, where Qwalli musicians perform every Thursday. We covered our heads with our dupatas and walked through the 700-year-old streets of the Sufi village in the heart of old Delhi, and were told to avoid the eyes of men, out of respect and safety. As our host led us through the dark labyrinth of narrow streets, a faint din of joyous song grew close, and the cobbled walkways became pathways of glowing white marble. At the entrance to the Nizammudin complex, lights so bright that it seemed like day illuminated shops selling holy green and gold embroidered cloths, garlands of jasmine and roses, goulab jamoun and other milk sweets, colorful books on Sufism, gold-framed pictures of Sufi saints and musicians, and lotus, sandalwood, rose, jasmine, and opium scented incense and perfume. We took off our shoes and entered into the heart of the Nizammudin complex, soon standing among the oldest mosque in India and the tombs of Hazrat Nizammudin Auliya, Amir Khusoro, Hazrat Khwaja Moinuddin. In the center, under a red, pink, white, and gold canopy, twenty Qwalli musicians-- voices expressing the utmost joy and love for the Infinite, arms raised in expression, two hands on a tabla, two on a dholak, and the two of the leader in the front on a harmonium—were passionately singing for the saints. Men walked into the tomb to pay their respects while women prayed outside, next to the sign Ladies are not allowed inside. The colorfully shrouded women clenched onto holes in the marble fence separating them from their beloved saints, sometimes weeping, sometimes chanting blessings. Begging women sat shrouded in a corner, whispering to each other, reaching out their hands to passing worshipers. Hundreds of people wove in and out, paying their respects, worshiping, sleeping, eating, chatting, and fanning each other from the powerful heat. I sat with my teacher and listened the musicians. I had never heard, seen, or smelled anything like what surrounded me and I was elated, enraptured, bewildered, over-stimulated, confused, shocked, and so incredibly thankful that I could be there, and experience that moment.
When my parents came to visit me, I wanted them to have this experience too. I wanted to show them something unlike anything they had ever seen in their lives, so I took them to Nizammudin on the last night of their stay in India. In the car on our way there, we noticed a family-- man, woman, and young girl-- on a motorbike beside us. A little boy ran through the traffic, selling jasmine garlands, and the girl bought one. She cupped the garland in her hands and lifted it to her nose. The motorbike family watched us watching them, and although we were used to being inspected, this interaction seemed special. So we greeted them with our hands and a smile, and they greeted us back.
When we arrived in the Nizammudin neighborhood, I couldn't remember exactly how to get to the mosque, so we wandered-- through the narrow, crowded streets, past chai wallahs, steaming chickens and goats roasting on skewers, bangle shops, fruit stands, mechanics, tailors; through crowds of men chewing beetle nut and spitting the red juices out at their feet, cows nonchalantly sitting in the middle of the street, lean dogs scavenging fallen chicken bits, children with their hands cupped to us, asking, "Money deejeay. Please madam. Madam! Please!" -- until I could tell we were getting near the entrance from the bright lights and stalls of religious offerings and trinkets. Dad bought a plastic mesh hat; mom bought an offering of roses in a leaf bowl. Taking off our shoes, our feet unwillingly embraced the sticky marble floors. We walked through a defunct metal detector that beeped when anyone went through it, and proceeded to walk through a maze of long white marble hallways, rose petals strewn about, open to the air, into the womb of activity. My mother shared her journal with me later:
"We made our way through a twisting maze of pathways to the center of the compound—the walkways were lined with beggars, and with my scarf covering my head and arms, the heat, foreignness, and poverty started getting to me." The heat was unbearable, especially with scarves covering our heads and arms; Delhi in late May is far from comfortable, at any hour. We finally found our way into the courtyard. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of lotus incense, sticky bodies, hair oil, squished cardamom flavored sweets on the marble floors, urine, and bare feet. My parents and I were the only white westerners visible.
Recorded devotional music blasted throughout the complex. We heard a man chanting the last call to prayer of the evening; a baby crying out in its mothers arms while the mother tugged on our pants, pleading, "Chipate, chipate, please madam, please madame"; the shuffling of feet as men went inside the Nizammudin shrine to pay their respects; a woman weeping as she prayed outside the shrine, pressing her forehead against the stone wall; embroidered saris sweeping across marble floors; a boy laughing while taunting his sister to catch him as he played tag where she was not allowed to go; and a crowd of old women talking to each other as they pulled blankets over themselves and proceeded to sleep for the evening. But no Qwalli music.
"We'd missed the performance-- I was frustrated, vulnerable, anxious, hot, and overwhelmed by the poverty, overwhelmed by a culture that I really didn't understand at all that I found myself deep in the belly of. I felt really out of control...if the singers had been there, it would have been ok, but since there was such an obvious sense of worship that I had no clue of, I felt like we were taking up space in a place where we shouldn't have, where people were there worshiping."
Without the performance, my mom felt like she did not have a valid reason to be in Nizammudin; she had no idea how to act; she felt vulnerable in the heat, barefoot, with many eyes on her, unsure if she should meet them or look away. Breathing hard, she started panicking, then completely broke down. Mom turned to me, eyes wide. "I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. GET ME OUT OF HERE!" she frantically choked. Her inflection terrified me. My mother is a reasonable, grounded woman. What should I do? She wouldn't look at me, she wouldn't listen to me, she couldn't hear me telling her that it's alright, it's alright. "Mom? Mom, can you look at me? Look at me! Mom? Can you hear me? Mom? MOM? MOM!" But she was lost under her dupata. I couldn't reach her, but I tried to stay calm. I didn't want to exit the compound right away when she broke. I was worried that it might get worse if we moved too fast, or if we moved at all, like moving someone who might have a spinal injury after just falling from a ladder. I tried to console her as best I could, tried to help her feel less distant. But it was impossible.
Then the motorbike girl appeared out of the thick crowd. Her appearance was completely unexpected—we had seen her and her family in hectic Delhi traffic far away from Nizammudin. She went straight to my mom and offered her the jasmine garland with a loving smile, gesturing that she could not speak. When the jasmine scent wasn't enough to fully calm my mom, the girl wrapped her small arms around Mom in a huge hug.
"The family we had seen on the motorcycle appeared before us and could see I was distressed. The girl offered welcoming hands to me (perhaps she was mute? Neither she nor her mother spoke)—I broke down when I saw the welcoming care in these people's faces—the girl gave me a strand of jasmine flowers—that fragrance and her hug calmed me a bit." My mom received unexpected love and support that night. The mute girl was able to comfort my mom; she showed her some familiarity in a foreign place, she showed her uninhibited kindness, and reminded my mom of the human connection that all people, no matter how different, can have.
"I was absolutely overwhelmed by her empathy, her understanding of my distress, her need to make me feel comfortable. I was awed by the hug she and her mom gave me. [The whole experience] was uncomfortable, powerful, raw. It was overwhelming-- more beautiful, real and scary than any I've had in India. I wouldn't take back the experience for anything. More than anything on the trip, it opened up my heart to these people."
I went to India to study music. As a student of Khyal and Qwalli, I had a purpose listening to musical performances, even when they were in places of worship. I was learning, which gave me a definitive role, and allowed for my comfort in foreign places. But without that purpose, my mom was lost. I led her into a deeply challenging situation because I desperately wanted my parents to hear the powerful music I experienced. Instead, we missed the music, and I lost communication with my mom. At first, I was disappointed with the experience I had with my parents in the Nizammudin complex—I wanted them to hear the music, to feel that connection that I had felt with Indian culture through music. My mom did not experience spiritual ecstasy or communication with the divine through listening to the spiritual Qwalli music, nor could she even communicate with her own daughter. But looking back, I am thankful for that night. My mother's interaction with a mute Muslim girl, a jasmine garland and a hug, gave her something she could not have received by just listening to a performance. On that last night in Delhi, before flying back across the world, on her 62nd birthday, my mother got an unforgettable gift. She got what she wanted from her experience in India: something real, a deep human interaction and connection, something more intimate than music could have been for her. The jasmine garland is pasted in her journal, and still smells vividly of that night.