Tonight, during the advanced session, they were working on a abhang by Sant Tukaram.
“Anjali,” he whispered. “Tukaram just swung his ear-ring in Bangalore.”
Not fast. Not perfectly. But she let the last stroke of the ‘वा’ trail off, not stopping abruptly, but fading into the paper, like a sound dissolving into silence. online calligraphy marathi
He demonstrated. His hand, spotted with age and calloused from seventy years of holding pens, moved across the paper like a dancer. The shirorekha was not a straight line; it was a subtle wave. The ‘ता’ curved with the grace of a temple spire. The ink bled just a little into the handmade paper.
“He chalatawa yete kanatli pahava…” (When I walk, I wish to see the ear-rings swinging…) Tonight, during the advanced session, they were working
Ajoba’s eyes, which had seen the British Raj, the birth of a nation, and the death of his own wife, suddenly glistened.
She closed her eyes. She remembered her grandmother’s voice, singing that very abhang while making puran poli . The smell of cardamom. The clang of the temple bell. Not perfectly
“The problem, Anjali,” Ajoba said, holding his pen up to the camera, “is that you are drawing letters. You are not feeling the word. ‘He chalatawa…’ – that is movement. The ear-ring of the Lord swings. Your pen must swing.”