By SriHari dasa
This holy place located in West Bengal was the most exhilarating place I have seen… Mayapur. The sun beating down on me, on the dusty and gravel road, I walked down the path towards our accommodation in Mayapur. It was a tall apartment that had a clear view of a neighbouring temple. Entering my room my caring mother informed me that I was going to an amazing teacher who would teach me how to play Sri Khol or Mridanga with my friends Gauranga and Krishna. Gauranga was a twelve-year-old, jolly boy and Krishna who was fit, energetic and relatively quiet had studied the art of mridanga for five years. The mridanga is a two-sided percussion instrument with dark circles in the middle and small and big sides that sound different. It has a long body and is made of clay or fibreglass. I was going to attend our first Mridanga class ever! Exhilarated I asked my parents where we were going to get our Mridangas to practise from. As I said this they answered that I was going to get my first clay Mridanga! The most special thing about a clay mridanga is that it is much louder than a fibre mridanga and it roars like a lion when played. They had a smile in their voice. This was the greatest day of my life and I would enjoy it to the fullest.
Today was the day when we had to start training and to get to the centre, we had to hire a rickshaw. Walking along the dusty roads to the rickshaw stall, we approached a driver who would take us to our teacher but we were ambushed by a group of rickshaw pliers. Nevertheless, we confidently confronted the driver as my friend’s mother, who knew Bengali, bargained for a lower price. Just as she started talking, the men who had waylaid us debated on who would drive. Shouting curses, the argument led to more aggressive squabbling. Suspecting a riot, we quickly embarked on the rickshaw we had approached, and the driver sped off leaving the devastated men shaking their fists. Bumping up and down on the gravel, which the rickshaw drove on, we excitedly babbled on about which Mridanga we would get and how wonderful the class would be. The small alley road we had entered was made of orange brick with sharp edges which the rikshaw was driving on. Slowly making progress through the uneven path, we stopped in front of the building where we would learn how to beat the ancient drum. Disembarking the rikshaw, my mouth fell open at the enormous house. Pushing open the tall gates, I marvelled at the Mridangas that I could see through the glass doors. I had never seen so many Mridanga in one place, eventually one of these would be mine.
Nervously shuffling towards the doors, I entered the shop and looked at the architecture of the building. This building’s name was the Mayapur’s Mridanga and so was the shop’s. It was a grand two-story building and house for a family. As I took a Mridanga from the shelf, I banged the sides as it resounded harmonious drum beats. As I heard steps coming down the stairs, I crammed the Mridanga back in its place and respectfully stood with hands behind my back. As the person came into view, I saw it was a healthy man with streaks of grey hair and a slightly wrinkled face. As he introduced himself, I heard that he was Bimal Chaitanya prabhuji’s father. Another pair of feet for the second time thumped down the stairwell. Coming into view, he introduced himself as our teacher. Thrilled, I controlled my excitement as I saw Gauranga and Krishna grinning broadly. Coming straight to business, he asked Gauranga’s father, Sumit Prabhu, which Mridanga he would buy and informed him of the types. One was a Bangladeshi Mridanga, played by professionals. The other type was the normal one and was less expensive. After pondering for some time, I concluded that I would get the normal one since it was our first clay drum. My friends had a similar choice and also got the normal one. Now that we had our Mridangas, our long-awaited classes would start.
Sitting down, my teacher, a Bengali man whose hands were twice the size of mine and were rough and bruised due to the extensive beating of the drum, had bulging muscles and was a short and strong man. He gave us an introduction to who he was and what he would teach us. He was highly experienced in playing Sri Khol and now owns a shop called Mayapur Mridanga and would gladly teach us the basics of playing Mridanga. Handing our newly bought Mridangas to us, he first asked us to memorise a special mantra, which is written in Sanskrit, that seeks permission from the Mridanga, an avatar of Lord Balarama, to touch and play it. I realised learning to play a drum also has a spiritual side to it. Slowly pronouncing each syllable correctly, I chanted this mantra. As our teacher instructed us, I moved my fingers on the two sides of the drum. After teaching me a simple beat he taught us how to count the beats on our fingers and how to play it at different speeds. As he showed us the different speeds, I was dumbstruck by the fourth speed that he played. His hands spun, striking the Mridanga at the speed of light as the beat thrummed on continuously. His hands were a blur and his arm muscles pulsated as he accumulated speed. The beat was the most melodious thing I had heard in my life. His body shook with effort as he reached the crescendo of the fifth speed. His hands slowly slowed down as he concluded his enlivening Mridanga session. I was eternally grateful that I had got the chance to learn from this maestro. I and my friends beamed with happiness as we exited his shop with new mantras to practise with new Mridangas.
For the second time that day, we walked Mayapur’s dusty and unkempt paths. This time, with less dispute, we called on a rickshaw driver who rumbled along to us. Settling at an agreed price, we got onto the rickshaw and drove away from our teacher’s house along the rocky roads on a rickety rickshaw. As I replayed the events in my mind’s eye, I smiled at the amazing experience I had. Playing and memorising the mantras I had learned, I let out a sigh of relief that I had finally found my hearts calling. I eagerly awaited my next class. Staring outside at the residents of Mayapur, I felt great gratitude towards my parents, who had brought me to this place and enrolled me on this Mridanga class. As I was contemplating this, the hypnotising rumble of the rickshaw’s engine stopped and the force of the brakes pushed me forward, shaking me out of my thoughts. We had reached our residence. Entering the room, I realised that I had been extremely tired from learning how to play mridanga, and this was the tax I had to pay. Climbing up the stairs and entering my room, I felt satisfied and this is how my thrilling day ended. That was a life-changing experience for me and brought me to what I am now.