Soliloquy of a Song: The Birth of Bukuhomhom kore...

Nirode Chaudhury shook his head in disgust and began to write. A few minutes lapsed before the boy again appeared. This time he carried an empty cigarette packet. He handed it to Chaudhury. On the white space over the tobacco company’s logo, the name “Nirode” written in neat curvy Assamese.

In the sublime melodic stillness of the moment, the stacks of newspapers, the multi-hued magazines and books swayed to a silent symphony, created by the pen as it slid over a writing pad. The nib guided by a delicate hand, painted words of emotive beauty drenched in subtle meaning of human labour. The descending evening had forced its way into the cluttered space laying bare the fragility of the day as it fought a losing battle with the night. But the occupant of the room was oblivious to this stir around him. He was drowned in the realms of the alphabets and words, that was lyrically flowing out of his pen.

Dressed in white kurta and pyjama, with his thick set of hair drawn backward and black framed glasses resting on the ridge of his nose, Nirode Chaudhury was writing an article that would go on print in two hours’ time. A faint furrow appeared on his forehead, as his eyes struggled to see through the shadow that spread over the paper. He switched on the table lamp… An inviting island of yellow warmth embraced both the writer and his writing.

As he reached the end of the third page, an incipient smile began to play on his lips. A character of a short story that he planned to write in the morning, had said something really unexpected. It would alter the original plot, but Nirode Chaudhury, being a seasoned storyteller, knew that at times he had to give a free hand to his fictional characters. There were three more pages to go before he could end this article. It was about a political development in the US presidency. He consulted a news report and continued with his writing.

This was how Nirode Chaudhury worked. Dabbling between the multiple universes of short story, news articles, journalism, novels and novellas… writing with a creative spontaneity very few can master.

The reverie of his thought was disturbed by movement at the edge of his vision. Without raising his head, he said “What do you want?”

There was no reply.

Annoyed, Chaudhury looked up. A boy around twelve years of age, stood at the doorway. Nirode Chaudhury repeated the question.

“There is someone waiting for you” the boy replied.

“Where?” asked Nirode Chaudhury.

“Just across the street.”

Who would have the audacity to do something like this, wondered Nirode Chaudhury, disturbing him at his work. His friends, colleagues and well-wishers knew very well that he didn’t entertain visitors at this hour.

“Go back and tell him to come tomorrow”

The boy hesitated and then left.

Nirode Chaudhury shook his head in disgust and began to write. A few minutes lapsed before the boy again appeared. This time he carried an empty cigarette packet. He handed it to Chaudhury. On the white space over the tobacco company’s logo, the name “Nirode” written in neat curvy Assamese.

Nirode Chaudhury stood up, took a sip of his honey bee brandy and rushed outside. In the land across the press building in Chandamari, the construction of the Chief Engineer’s office,(Public Works Department) was going on in full swing. The place had been dug up and heaps of loose soil, stone, and bricks were scattered all over. Steel rods protruded from the ground, carrying a vague sense of the structure it was to become.

Seated atop a pile of rusting iron rods, was a lone lean figure, dressed in a white shirt, gray trousers, and a Gurkha cap. His eyes, distant and dreamy seemed to transcend the bounds of the horizon…he exuded a vibe of extreme calmness…a calmness that holds a storm in its womb.

“Bhupen da” said Nirode Chaudhury.

Bhupen Hazarika turned “Sorry to disturb you…carry on with your work … will wait for you here” he said.

“You can sit in my office” Nirode Chaudhury made a halfhearted request.

In the next half an hour, Chaudhury finished the article, gave direction to the artist about the layout and wrote two small briefs for the cinema page.

The red of the sun had almost disappeared and the sky took on a faint blue tone as both Bhupen Hazarika and Nirode Chaudhury walked along the pavement.

“Where are you headed Nirode?” asked Bhupen Hazarika.

“To my sister’s place in Maligaon” Nirode Chaudhury replied.

“I think we should take a taxi”

Given the distance to be traversed, it took quite a bit of convincing on the part of Chaudhury to make a rickshaw puller to agree to go to Maligaon.

In the entire way, it was Bhupen Hazarika who spoke and Chaudhury listened. From his new projects in Kolkata, to the state of world affairs, to the a film he had recently watched, …everything under the sun or rather under the star lit night sky. On reaching Maligaon, Hazarika insisted that they take another rickshaw back to Pan Bazar. It was next to impossible for Chaudhury to refuse him. So, both men hopped on a rickshaw and resumed their journey.

When the rickshaw reached station road in Pan Bazar Nirode Chaudhury said “Bhupenda…you should go to Shillong…it will freshen you up”

“You think so…” said Hazarika with a smile.

The rickshaw had come to a halt near a Dak Bungalow at the traffic crossing. It then stood at the place where later on the Reserve Bank of India was to be built. Bhupen Hazarika got down and slowly walked away. A restlessness simmering in his being.

When Nirode Chaudhury, visited the bungalow the next morning, the caretaker informed that Hazarika had already left. For the next three days there was no news of his whereabouts. On the fourth day an inland letter was waiting for Chaudhury in his room. It was from Bhupen Hazarika. A single sentence was written across the page. “Shillongor prakriti dekhi…nostalgia hoi…bukumurhomhom kore kiobaruNirode?” (Why does the beauty of Shillong, make me nostalgic…and my heart goeshomhom…Nirode?)

That was the first time Bhupen Hazarika had used the word BukuHomHom kore.

A week later, crouched on the bathroom floor, pouring water over a pile of clothes Bhupen Hazarika said,“Nirode, I have written a new song…I still have to work on the lyrics but the tune is almost done.” He began to sing Buku ham ham kore.

The song pierced through Nirode Chaudhury’s heart, scattering and assimilating a million emotions. He closed his eyes… drowning himself in the fervent rhythm of the moment. He knew then and there that he was in the midst of history in making.

By Emon NC.