I sit, focus drawn upward, eyes fixed on the colourful pattern adorning the fabric that stretches over the roof of the giant marquee. A group of men sit on a small stage. Sliding, pounding hands produce a complex series of rhythmical syllables on tablas nestled against their crossed legs; the tones varying with the timbre of each drum and the manipulation of their masters’ hands. One man keys a harmonium as he pumps a meandering tune through the vibrating reeds of the organ, one long hypnotic exhalation after the other from within its’ bellows. The music floats out over the, parched semi-arid plains of Meherabad, Maharashtra.
It is day two of the festival Amartithi, the anniversary of guru Meher Babba’s death. The fields here, empty only days prior are now filled with countless marquees and market stalls. Tens of thousands have gathered, a cross section of race, religion and social backgrounds from around the world. It is late in the evening. I watch the endless cue that quietly shuffles toward the shrine and burial place of their guru, their god. In turn they kneel at the open doorway and lower their heads fervently to the foot of the shrine, muttering words I cannot hear.
I wander out from under the main tent and return to the man from whom I have bought my last two cups of chai. He smiles with recognition. A ‘Nestle’ coffee machine sits on a camping table. He places my cup under the machine. It spits forth fragrant chai. The scent of crushed cardamom pods, cinnamon and cloves carries from the blend he packed in to the machine earlier.
Inside the ashram the courtyard is dimly lit. A small crowd has gathered to partake in the music that has unfolded. The musicians are Iranian; Sufis. The men are dressed in long white robes; the women wear western style clothing and headscarfs. Two men beat large drums, hide stretched taught over large circular wooden frames. They shake them jingling a series of metal rings fastened to the insides. Another man plays a violin, as a man and woman stand central to the group exchanging a lyrical banter that brings cheers of affirmation from the crowd. People sit and clap in time. Again I am drawn in to the music, submerged in the atmosphere.
Soon it is early morning. I emerge into the surrounding fields to usher in the final day of the festival. I find an abandoned flat top building. There is no one around. I sit on the roof, taking in the waking day. I feel at peace. Caught in the moment.
