Dhol Baaje

My arms are tired. And I am numb. Impervious to the cacophony of noises around me. Every moment is spent in jubilation. In the joy of others. The happiness of the wellwishers dancing around me, while I am at work. The contentment of the man of the hour, alight on his steed, trotting onwards to a life of parenthood, investments and nagging in laws.

The beats my troupe belt out are vivacious, thrilling and enticing. The entire neighborhood takes note of our rhythm. Children and gasbags gawk at us in amusement. The bride eagerly awaits to hear our music, as she impatiently sits and lets the women of her household bless her on her journey towards love, sensuality, pain and patience. How sad is the tale of the traditional Indian wife, I think from time to time.

But how sad is my fate, as I toil in the heat of the unforgiving Hindustan night, drumming rhythmically and consistently like a metronome on fast forward. The tissues of my biceps squeal in anger, pleading me to stop. But how can I? For I drum to fill my belly with Basmati and Dahi. I drum everyday, for the few twenty rupees I make to eat and maintain my tummy strapped tabla.

No one knows my name. No one knows my song. No one knows my home.

And everyday, I see a beautiful girl officially entering the arms of my employer. And I ask my deity, "Oh Bhagwan or Jesus or Allah or Buddha, when will I ride a horse to earn my bride?"

But alas. Another night has ended, and another fair maiden has unconsciously crushed my heart. Pain is permanent in my profession. A broken heart. A sprain arm. And a fresh drumstick mark.