The Agonizing Misconception: A Forgotten Maestro and a Song of Silent Tears
[This morning, I received an Assamese write-up from
a friend via WhatsApp, authored by an unknown writer. It narrates a profoundly
moving and unfortunate misconception—an account of a revered rural peasant folk
drummer who was overlooked and disregarded by society. As someone deeply
connected to Assam’s artistic heritage, I have personally witnessed and
experienced similar instances of societal neglect toward artists on numerous
occasions. With this in mind, I have taken the initiative to translate and share
this piece with you, hoping it will offer deeper insight into the realities
faced by our artistic community.]
In the annals of Assamese
cultural heritage, few songs have stirred hearts as profoundly as "Tumi
biyār niśā, śayan pāţīr epāhi rajanīgandhā". Long celebrated as a
poignant reflection on the lives of women, this song—immortalized by Dr. Bhupen
Hazarika—has been shrouded in a terrible misconception. It was never about women.
It was about a man. A legend, A soul so deeply entwined with the rhythm of the
land that his art became his breath, and yet, society let him fade into the
shadows.
It was the 1970s, a time when
Assam’s cultural renaissance was finding voice in its Bihu celebrations. The
city of Jorhat was abuzz with the grand Tarajan Bihu conference, an event that
would bring together two colossal figures of Assamese music—Dr. Bhupen
Hazarika, the Sudhakanta (Nightingale of Assam), and the unparalleled drum
virtuoso, Maghai Oja.
The evening unfurled like a
celestial symphony. The air pulsated with the hypnotic resonance of Maghai
Oja’s drum, each beat echoing through the gathered masses. The crowd,
enthralled, demanded more—such was the magic of the maestro’s hands. And then,
in an act of artistic reverence rare even among the greatest of men, Dr.
Hazarika stepped aside, surrendering the entire stage to Maghai Oja.
That night, Oja played not as a mere performer but as a sovereign of sound, his
rhythms weaving an ancient tale of the soil, the sweat, and the spirit of
Assam.
But when the applause faded and
the festival came to an end, the cruel hand of fate tightened its grip. By
dawn, the echoes of his art had vanished into an abyss of neglect.
A Shocking Revelation
The event concluded at the unholy
hour of 3:30 AM. The dignitaries retired, the audience dispersed, the stage lay
barren. As dawn's first light touched Jorhat, Dr. Hazarika, seated in the
residence of the esteemed tea planter Bibhucharan Barua, found himself restless.
Something was amiss. He abruptly left his breakfast, his heart burdened by
an inexplicable weight.
Driven by a force beyond reason,
he instructed his driver to return to the now-deserted Bihu pavilion. What he
saw upon arrival shattered him.
There, in a darkened corner of
the stage, lay Maghai Oja. Not in a resting chamber, not in a chair, not
even on a modest cot. He lay on the bare ground, wrapped in discarded stage
cloth, a human relic abandoned beneath the sky he had once illuminated with his
music. His body bore the marks of mosquito bites, his face was gaunt with
exhaustion, yet no hand had reached out to offer him dignity.
A man who had commanded the
spirits of rhythm, who had held an entire city in rapture mere hours ago, was
now reduced to a nameless shadow on the cold earth.
The sight wrenched Dr. Hazarika’s
soul. His hands trembled as he reached down to lift Oja from the ground. How
could this happen? How could a society that claimed to revere its cultural
icons leave them discarded like forgotten relics?
Without hesitation, Dr. Hazarika carried
Maghai Oja to his car and drove him personally to his humble home in
Hatigarh Naoshali village.
The Song Born from Tears
This moment of bitter truth—this
grotesque failure of society to uphold its own artistic heritage—became the
soul of a song.
On that sorrowful journey back
from Maghai Oja’s residence, as the car moved through the morning mist, a
melody began to form in the depths of Dr. Hazarika’s tormented heart. A song of
loss, a song of injustice, a song that would forever carry the weight of the
night when an artist was forgotten.
It was not about a woman. It was
about a maestro abandoned. It was about a culture that sings the praises of its
artists yet lets them perish in silence.
"Tumi biyār niśā, śayan
pāţīr epāhi rajanīgandhā"—the lyrics were not about
romance; they were a lament, a dirge for the forgotten artisans whose hands
craft music, only to be left empty.
Even today, this song
reverberates with a truth deeper than melody. It is an elegy for every artist
denied dignity, for every genius abandoned at the height of his glory. It is a
mirror held to the conscience of a society that celebrates art yet forsakes
its artists.
And perhaps, as the song plays,
the listener—unknowing, untouched—may find his eyes damp, his heart aching with
the weight of a grief that is not just of the past, but a curse we still carry.
For how many more Maghai Ojas must sleep beneath the open sky before we
awaken?
[Translated from Assamese by Dilip Changkakoty]
Link of the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JliQrC9s3oo
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