This video-clip held me in absolute thrall this morning! Astounding talent!
If you watch the video fully, you too will feel that this little boy is indeed blessed with precocious musical talent …
The boy probably takes music lessons from a poor, freelancing village music-tutor during after-school hours … notice the school satchel he clings on to even while singing!
The little boy has definitely got a natural and fine sense of melody that’s beyond his age. The way he initially sings out a few lilting phrases of the raaga Kalyaani (raag Yaman in North Indian Hindustani music) clearly shows he has firm understanding of the raaga-structure or svarupa. The boy has also a strong, vibrant , flexible , rural timbre to his voice … He knows how to hit the right notes even on the higher octaves with precision and the right gamakam… And his svara gnyaana comes shining through his mini, cameo prastaara which is impeccable!
All in all, a truly bravura performance from the little rural village-Ustaad.
The beauty of our great country, India, is the deep culture that pervades even the remotest parts of interior rural India where the guru-sishya tradition even today imparts artistic values from one generation to another through simple uncomplicated oral traditions of one-on-one education… No new-fangled, fancy “online lessons” here!
More than to the boy , I for one would give all credit to that village guru who has worked real magic indeed with no more than 2 rudimentary tools in his musical toolkit … a battered harmonium and the patience of a truly committed teacher !
That Unknown Village Music Tutor , whose face, if you noticed, is not even shown in the video-footage, reminds me with his likeness to that anonymous but famous village-blacksmith who was immortalised by the English poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
Jai Hind , mera Bhaarath Mahaan! 🙏🙏
Sudarshan Madabushi