Indrapala Silva – Human Equivalent of a Musical Bridge across Palk Strait

Very early in the morning in his sprawling estate at Weuda, Kurunagala in Sri Lanka, we used to wake up to the sound emanated from a particular music instrument which doesn’t look inspiring at the first glance, during our short visits to the Pearl of the Indian Ocean.

It used to be a piece of inelegant solid wood with a few strings attached to it, that seemed to be at the mercy of cuticles of the already-battered fingers of the left hand of Mr Indrapala and an equally inelegant bow, that took up the alternative positions of crests and troughs in the immediate atmosphere, in step with the silent thoughts of the graceful composer.

The instrument in question was Sarangi, a little known ancient Indian music device in Sri Lanka. Mr Indrapala was credited with the promotion of it in the island in the eighties when very few heard about the existence of such a thing; he was an irreplaceable pioneer in that noble task. His unexpected death at the age of 73, just two weeks ago, dealt a mortal blow for the plan he had in mind in popularizing the device, as far as the formidable challengers that lay ahead were concerned.

To his credit, he had a partial success; thanks to his relentless effort along with that of the like-minded few, Sarangi found its place in the national curriculum in Sri Lanka. At the time of his demise, he was on the brink of creating a chain of disciples in line with the traditions of his contemporary Gurus in the neighbouring India.

Mr Indrapala, a graduate musician, had a natural inclination for music. His love affair with Sarangi started when he heard about the story behind its birth: “An indigenous doctor while on a visit through a forest, lay down under the shade of a tree to get some rest,” he started explaining it to me, a few years back. “On hearing the beautiful music that came from above, he woke up and found that it was actually produced by wind blowing over the skin of a dead monkey, which had been stretched between two trees,” he continued the story. The doctor, according to Mr Indrapala, had his Eureka moment and the notoriously-laborious Sarangi was born.

Sarangi, derived from the combination of the two Hindi words – sau (means hundred) rang (colours) – did indeed produce the emotional equivalents of the colours in the mind of the player, according to Mr Indrapala. No wonder, his retirement was inextricably linked with everything to do with the instrument.

The music produced by a Sarangi indeed resembles human voice provided that you have an ear for music, have the gift of being in a meditative state – at least for a few minutes – and above all, the patience for being subjected to that demanding pose. It is a vocal instrument which demands the player singing the tunes in his head.

As a senior diplomat at the Sri Lankan foreign ministry, his post as the culture secretary at the Sri Lankan High Commission in New Delhi in late eighties did provide him with the wonderful opportunity to work with the giants in the classical music industry in India. Pandit Ram Narayan, who is the best-known Indian player of the instrument, was one of them; after his retirement, thanks to the generosity extended by the Indian Government, Mr Indrapala managed to have his training under the guidance of Pandit Ram Narayan in India.

It is Gustav Mahler who said that if a composer could say what he had to say in words, he wouldn’t bother trying to say it in music. This is exactly what Mr Indrapla did and his relatively reserved nature can easily be accounted for by taking the quote of the Mahler on board while analysing the musical phase of life of the gentleman; he had been speaking to his dear-and-near ones in music – a code that some could neither interpret nor understand.

Mr Indrapala had no plans to make money in pursuing a post-retirement music career and his explanation was pretty simple. “Goddesses Lakshmi and Saraswathi are not known to be the best buddies,” said he, while referring to the existing celestial rivalry between the goddesses of wealth and music respectively, high above in the sky. Patchy drawings of random crotchets, quavers and minims drawn on the white board in his room was a poignant reminder of his sheer dedication to what he loved, next to his family – classical Indian Music.

Following in the footsteps of his Gurus in India, Mr Indrapala had laid out a set of caveats for those who lived with him to obey. He demanded silence in his household at the very early morning – something he always got with very little resistance – and reciprocated the gesture by playing out soothingly-beautiful Gayatri Mantra as the first thing in the morning while putting his whole estate on a musical footing. It was a spiritual tonic for the soul, indeed.

The sudden loss of Mr Indrapala was a serious blow to his contemporaries. Both Sanath Nandasiri and Malkanthi broke down while paying their last respects to the friend that they knew over decades. An even bigger loss is for the students who made up their mind to learn Sarangi against formidable odds, not least because of the struggle to master an instrument with no frets or fingerboards; Mr Indrapala was an inspiration for the studious who lived by example – the effort in learning Sarangi is well worth it despite the obvious.

The distinguished legacy left behind by Mr Indrapala is more than enough to elevate him to the tiny nation’s iconography of musicians who dedicated their entire lives for a noble cause. In retrospect, they were much smaller in life than they are now in the glorious spiritual realm.

- Asian Tribune -