The Train to Harmony

Departures

The smell of coal, perspiration, and excitement filled the air at Howrah Junction. The clamor of porters screaming, hawkers selling chai and samosas, and the repetitive announcements resonating from tiny speakers filled the vast station, a huge testament to Kolkata's frenetic heartbeat. Sohini Das stood on Platform 9, her tattered leather bag draped over her shoulder and her small luggage gripped tightly in one hand. With its green and yellow carriages extending into the early morning haze, the Howrah-Amritsar Express towered over her. It was 6:45 a.m. when she looked at her watch. In fifteen minutes, the train was scheduled to leave.

Sohini adjusted her dupatta, the silky fabric falling softly on her neck, and took a deep breath. At twenty-two, she was no stranger to travel, but this one seemed different. It wasn't only the distance—more than 1,800 kilometers from Kolkata to Amritsar—or the fact that she had never visited Punjab before. This journey was the result of months of research, long evenings spent poring over books and recordings, and a burning desire that had taken root in her heart. Her thesis, "The Evolution of Punjab's Folk Music: A Study of Cultural Syncretism", was not only her passport to academic success but also a love letter to the music that had sculpted her soul.

She climbed into the train, her sandals clicking against the metal steps, and proceeded to her sleeper cabin. The short passage was already filled with passengers rushing to locate their seats, their voices a jumble of Bengali, Hindi, and dialects she couldn't identify. She located her seat, a lower berth near the window, and tucked her suitcase beneath it. The compartment was simple yet tidy, with faded blue cushions and a little folding table. She relaxed there, taking out her notebook and pen, her fingers yearning to jot down the things that were racing through her head.

The compartment door creaked open as the train whistle sounded, announcing the impending departure. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a well-groomed beard and a turban in a vivid shade of saffron strode in. He held a little steel tiffin container in one hand and a huge canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Due to his size and the serene confidence he exuded, his presence filled the room. He gave Sohini a kind grin after taking a quick look at the berth numbers.

"Sat, Sri Akaal," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "Is this berth 24?"

Sohini nodded and returned a courteous grin. "Yes, it is. "You're in the right place."

He laid his suitcase down and sat opposite her in the top berth allotted to him for later. He introduced himself as "Amarjeet Singh," and extended his hand. His grip was solid but compassionate, and his calloused fingers suggested a life of hard work.

"Sohini Das," she answered, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."

The train pushed onwards, its wheels moaning against the tracks, and Howrah Junction started to fade away. Sohini looked out the window, watching the platform transform into a kaleidoscopic array of colours...red turbans, green sarees, and the odd flash of a vendor's steel tray. The city's turmoil vanished, giving way to the vast expanse of West Bengal's countryside. Fields of emerald rice paddies extended to the horizon, accented by palm trees and little towns with tin roofs.

Amarjeet took his seat, with his tiffin carrier lying on the table between them. "First time in Amritsar?" he enquired, his tone polite but not intrusive.

Sohini nodded. "Yes. I'm going to do my research. I'm researching Punjabi folk music for my thesis.

His brows lifted, revealing a spark of intrigue in his eyes. "Folk music?" That is something remarkable. My hamlet near Amritsar sings ancient tunes during harvest and weddings. "They're in our blood."

Sohini's curiosity piqued. She leaned forward slightly, forgetting her notes for the moment. "What types of songs? "Like bhangra or something else?"

The rich sound of Amarjeet's laughter seemed to reverberate throughout the compartment. Yes, bhangra, but also tappe and boliyan. Our grandmothers used to sing these tunes while cooking or spinning cotton. The ones that convey stories of love, loss, and the land, rather than the loud ones you hear in movies.

Sohini's eyes brightened. She had hoped to find just this kind of information. "I'm studying that," she exclaimed excitedly. "The history of the music, its evolution, and its blending with other customs." similar to how Bengali baul music shares origins with Punjabi folk or how Sufi poetry affected it.

Amarjeet nodded with a thoughtful gaze. "You are correct about the mixing. Punjabi music is like our food. It has flavours from all over, yet it still tastes like home."

A chaiwala came by, his kettle clinking against his tray, causing the conversation to pause. "Chai, garam chai!" he said. Amarjeet flagged him down and asked for two cups. The vendor poured the hot tea into little paper cups, the perfume of cardamom and ginger filling the air. Amarjeet gave one to Sohini, who received it gratefully.

"Thank you," she replied, clutching the warm cup. "So, what brought you to this train? "Are you from Amritsar?"

He retorted, sipping his chai, "Born and raised." "I work as a farmer. Mostly wheat, with some sugarcane. I was visiting my cousin in Kolkata. He lives here with his family and works as a truck driver. Every year, I visit, take in the city, and have some mishti. He smiled, his rough look belying a boyish charm. However, I find the city to be extremely noisy. I miss my village and my farms.

Sohini grinned as she saw him standing in a field in the sunlight, surrounded by golden wheat stalks. "I get that. I consider Kolkata to be my home, but occasionally I also need to get away from the bustle. Music transports you to a different place, which is why I adore it.

Amarjeet laid his cup down and opened his tiffin carrier to show a stack of foil-wrapped parathas, a small container of pickle, and a big piece of curd. The aroma of ghee and spices permeated the compartment, making Sohini's mouth water. "My cousin's wife packed this," he explained, removing the wrapper. "Enough for an army." "Do you want some?"

Sohini paused, her urban senses kicking in. Sharing meals with a stranger on the train was not something she did frequently. But there was something disarming about Amarjeet's candour, the way he spoke as if they'd known each other forever. "Sure," she replied, her smile expanding. "Thank you."

He tore off a piece of paratha and gave it to her, along with a tablespoon of curd and a dab of pickle. The paratha was warm and flaky, the curd cool and tangy, and the pickle a spicy blast of flavour. Sohini savoured the mouthful, her eyelids closing briefly in gratitude. "This is amazing," she exclaimed. "Your cousin's wife is a genius."

Amarjeet laughed. "I will tell her what you said. "She'll be thrilled."

As they ate, the train rattled through the countryside, the panorama changing from rice paddies to mustard fields, the yellow blooms standing out against the blue sky. Sohini and Amarjeet settled into a comfortable rhythm, their discussion flowing like the rivers they crossed. She told him about her youth in Kolkata, growing up in a small flat in Behala, where her father, a schoolteacher, would play Rabindra Sangeet on his harmonium every evening. She mentioned her mother, a librarian, who introduced her to Tagore's poetry and the mystic chants of Lalon Fakir. She explained that music was her family's language, their method of understanding the world.

Amarjeet listened closely, his eyes crinkling at the corners as she detailed her unsuccessful attempts to learn the sitar as a teenager. "I wanted to be a musician," she said, "but I'm better at studying music than playing it."

"That's also a gift," Amarjeet replied. "Not everyone can hear the stories in the notes."

He offered his own stories, evoking vivid images of his village near Amritsar. He mentioned the Golden Temple, its gleaming reflection in the sarovar, and the langar, where hundreds dined together regardless of caste or creed. He recounted the festivals: Baisakhi, when the fields came alive with music and dance, and Lohri, when bonfires illuminated the winter nights. His voice softened as he recalled his family: his parents, who, despite their age, continued to work in the fields, and his younger sister, who aspired to be a teacher.

"She's like you," he continued, gesturing to Sohini's notebook. "Always reading and asking questions. She'd want to meet someone who studies music.

Sohini felt a warmth run through her, not from the chai or the food, but from the connection that had formed between them. It was unusual for her to encounter someone who was both strange and familiar, as if their lives had been stitched together.

As the afternoon sun rose higher, the cabin warmed up, and the train's rhythm became a comfortable lullaby. Other passengers in the compartment, including a family with two young children, an elderly couple, and a guy typing away on his phone, contributed to the journey's soundtrack. The youngsters grinned as they played with a rubber ball, the old woman hummed a tune under her breath, and the businessman growled into his phone about shipping delays.

Sohini opened her notebook and turned to a page where she had taken notes about Punjab's folk instruments—the dhol, tumbi, and algoza. "Do you play any instruments?" she questioned Amarjeet.

He shakes his head. "Not really." I can hold a beat on the dhol during Baisakhi, but that's about it. My uncle, however, plays the sarangi. "When he plays, it's as if the strings are crying, telling stories about our forefathers."

Sohini scribbled down his remarks, her pen running swiftly. "That's beautiful," she said. "The sarangi is one of the most challenging instruments to master. It's quite expressive, almost like a human voice.

Amarjeet nodded. "That's what my uncle said. He learnt from his father, who in turn had learnt from his father. It is a tradition that has been passed down, just like our land."

The topic shifted to the land, and Amarjeet discussed the issues farmers faced—erratic monsoons, growing costs, and the allure of cities that drew young people away. His voice was a mix of pride and concern, a farmer's passion for the land balanced with the reality of a changing world. Sohini listened, her metropolitan perspective moving as she witnessed the rhythms of a life so unlike her own.

As evening approached, the train came to a stop at a little station with a packed platform full of vendors selling roasted maize and jhal muri. Amarjeet bought two paper cones of spicy puffed rice and gave one to Sohini. They ate in companionable stillness, the crunch of the muri blending with the train's steady clatter.

"Tell me more about your thesis," Amarjeet asked, brushing crumbs from his palms. "What do you want to find in Amritsar?"

Sohini hesitated, collecting her thoughts. "I'm looking for the roots of Punjab's music," she told me. "How history has shaped it through invasions, migrations, and religions." I want to talk to musicians, hear their experiences, and even record some tunes. But more importantly, I want to understand what music means to individuals. "Why does it matter?"

Amarjeet's gaze relaxed. "It matters because it's who we are," he explained simply. "When we sing, we are more than just farmers, shopkeepers, and students. We're a part of something bigger, something that came before us and will continue to exist after us."

Sohini felt a bump on her throat. His statements echoed her convictions, explaining why she selected this path despite her professors' advice to study something "more practical." She sought to capture and maintain something bigger in her work.

The train relaxed into the darkness, with the windows reflecting the pale glow of the compartment lights. The other passengers began to prepare for sleep by unfolding blankets and climbing into their berths. Amarjeet volunteered to take the middle berth and leave Sohini on the lower one, but she demanded he keep it.

"You're taller," she added with a smile. "You need the space."

He chuckled, conceded, and they retired for the night. Sohini rested on her berth, the train moving her softly. She recalled Amarjeet's stories, the sarangi's shriek, and the dhol's beat. She recalled her city, with its packed streets and deep music. As she fell asleep, she had a dream about a tune that was a fusion of Bengal and Punjab, weaving the threads of their worlds together.

The Village Song

The golden spires of the Harmandir Sahib glittered in the midday sun as Sohini stepped off the train at Amritsar Junction. The platform was a frenzy of activity, with rickshaw drivers bargaining, relatives reunited, and merchants selling everything from kulchas to colourful bangles. She grasped the piece of paper Amarjeet had handed her, with his village address scrawled in precise handwriting. The rail ride had ended, but her adventure had only just begun.

After settling into a small guesthouse near the Golden Temple, Sohini hired an auto-rickshaw to drive her to Amarjeet's village, which was a 30-minute ride through Amritsar's outskirts. The city's bustle gave way to peaceful lanes bordered with mustard fields and the occasional clump of mud-brick dwellings. The air smelled of dirt and growing crops, in sharp contrast to Kolkata's urban pollution.

The rickshaw approached a little town with narrow roads bordered by banyan trees and whitewashed houses. Children played cricket in a dusty clearing, their laughter mixed with the distant sound of a tractor. Sohini paid the driver and walked out, her satchel laden with a notebook, recorder, and portable speaker. She felt a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension—her research was no longer just pages in a book; it was alive and rooted in this location.

She reached Amarjeet's family's home, a strong, single-story house with a courtyard shaded by a neem tree. A young girl, probably sixteen, was sweeping the courtyard with her dupatta loosely draped around her head. She looked up as Sohini approached, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Sat Sri Akaal," Sohini replied, mirroring Amarjeet's salutation from the train. "I am Sohini Das. Is Amarjeet Singh here?

The girl's expression brightened. "You are the music student! Bhaiya informed us about you. I am Harpreet, his sister. "Come on in!"

Harpreet brought Sohini into the house and called out in Punjabi. The inside was basic but inviting, with woven charpais in the living room and a tiny shrine decorated with marigolds. Amarjeet came from a rear room, a grin spreading across his face.

"Sohini! "You made it!" He shouted this while clapping his hands together. "Welcome to our home."

He presented her to his family: his mother, Jaswinder, a wiry woman with a welcoming smile, and his father, Gurdeep, whose worn hands told of decades spent in the fields. They made she sit and offered her a glass of lassi, its cool sweetness a welcome relief in the afternoon heat. Harpreet remained nearby, her curiosity evident.

"Amarjeet said you're studying our music," Jaswinder explained, placing a platter of freshly prepared pakoras in front of Sohini. "Our village has numerous songs. You should meet his uncle, Baldev. "He plays the sarangi like nobody else."

Sohini's heartbeat quickened. "I'd love to meet him," she stated, taking out her notebook. "Amarjeet mentioned he was playing. "Can I hear him today?"

Amarjeet nodded. "He is currently in the fields, but he will return by dusk. We're having a modest party tonight with several neighbours and a few tunes. "You are welcome to join."

Music brightened the evening. As the sun fell below the horizon, throwing an orange glow over the hamlet, neighbours gathered in the courtyard. A fire flared in a small pit, and someone took out a dhol, its deep rhythms creating a rhythm. Baldev, a slim guy with a white beard and bright eyes, appeared with his sarangi, the polished wood shining in the firelight.

Sohini sat cross-legged on a charpai, her recorder nearby. Baldev tuned the sarangi, his fingers coaxing delicate, melancholy sounds out of the strings. He opened with a traditional heer, a love ballad about Punjab's fabled lovers, Heer and Ranjha. His harsh yet heartfelt voice flowed through the music, and the sarangi appeared to cry, its notes rising and dropping like a human voice. The locals joined in, some singing, some clapping, their faces beaming with shared memories.

Sohini's heart pounded as she recorded each sound. This was what she had come for: the raw, unfiltered spirit of Punjabi music, expressed through the voices of its people. When Baldev finished, she approached him with her notebook open.

"That was incredible," she commented. "Tell me about the music. "How did you learn that?"

Baldev wiped his forehead and smiled. "This heer is as old as rivers. My grandfather taught me, exactly as his grandfather had taught him. It's more than simply a song; it represents our past, suffering, and love. "We sing it to remind ourselves who we are."

Sohini scribbled furiously, her questions pouring out. "How have things changed over time? "Are younger people learning it?"

Baldev's smile had faded significantly. "Not as many as previously. The young people desire cinema songs and English music. "The old songs... are fading."

His words hit a chord. Sohini considered Kolkata, where baul singers struggled to attract audiences despite the city's fascination with pop and Bollywood. She had further questions regarding the sarangi's construction, the impact of Sufi poets, and the importance of music in village life. Baldev patiently responded, his stories an invaluable resource for her thesis.

As the night progressed, Amarjeet joined them and offered Sohini a platter of jalebis. "What do you think of our music?" he enquired.

"It's everything I hoped for," she remarked, her voice full with excitement. "It's living; it's real. "Thanks for bringing me here."

He grinned. "You're one of us now."

Echoes of Change

Sohini spent the next four days engrossed in the village's rhythms. She spent the mornings interviewing artists, including dhol players, tappe singers, and an elderly woman who remembered ballads from childhood. She recorded their songs, her portable speaker filling the courtyard with sound while they nodded and corrected her remarks. Harpreet became her shadow, eager to hear about Sohini's studies and discuss her own ambitions of studying in the metropolis.

But behind the village's joyful music, Sohini detected tension. The younger generation, including Harpreet's companions, had little interest in folk traditions. They talked about migrating to Chandigarh or Delhi and working in technology or call centres. The dhol and sarangi were replaced by Bluetooth speakers playing Punjabi music and Hindi film songs. Even Amarjeet, proud of his history, agreed that the hamlet was changing.

One afternoon, as they went across the fields, he pointed out a plot of land where a factory was being erected. "This used to be wheat fields," he explained, his voice husky. "Now it is concrete. "Progress, they call it."

Sohini frowned. "Does it affect the music too?"

He nodded. "When the terrain changes, so do the songs. less people working the fields together means fewer opportunities to perform ancient work songs. Festivals still exist, but they feel smaller.

Sohini's thesis assumed additional urgency. She came to consider her work as more than merely intellectual, but as a chance to preserve a dying culture. She spent the evenings with Baldev, learning about the syncretism she'd studied—how Sikh hymns, Sufi qawwalis, and Hindu bhajans had merged into Punjabi folk music. She captured a group of women singing boliyan, their voices crisp and playful, and a small boy attempting a tumbi melody, his fingers clumsy but determined.

One evening, Harpreet invited Sohini to a local school event in which children performed for parents. The presentation featured a bhangra dance, although the music was a remixed track from a recent film, rather than conventional dhol-driven beats. Sohini clapped, but her heart plummeted. Later, she asked Harpreet if the school taught folk music.

"They used to," Harpreet explained. "But now, it's largely keyboard classes or competitive dancing teams. Folk tunes do not win awards.

Sohini's thoughts raced. Could she do anything to bridge this gap? She recalled her city, where community groups had rekindled interest in baul music through seminars. Perhaps she might propose something similar here: a technique to make folk music more appealing to young people.

She discussed her proposal with Amarjeet and Baldev over supper. "What if we held a music workshop?" Invite new people, teach them ancient songs, and perhaps blend them with modern styles to make it fun."

Baldev's eyes brightened up. "That is a good thought. But it will take effort. The young people must recognise its value.

Amarjeet nodded. "I may speak to the village council. "Maybe we can use the community hall."

Sohini experienced a burst of purpose. Her research was no longer just about observation; it was about giving. She spent the next day creating a plan based on her notes and recordings. Harpreet offered to help, her zeal contagious.

The Harmony Project

A week later, the village hall had been changed. Sohini, with the support of Amarjeet and Harpreet, had organised a little music workshop. They'd spread the word across the school and the nearby gurdwara, inviting anyone interested to attend. To Sohini's amazement, more than twenty individuals arrived—children, teenagers, and a few oldies, including Baldev.

Baldev began the workshop by playing a traditional heer, which was followed by a history discussion. Sohini provided recordings of Bengali baul songs, highlighting their spiritual elements. Harpreet, who had been practicing, and a friend sang a tappe together, their voices melding in playful harmony. Initially shy, the teenagers began to clap along, with some even attempting to play the dhol.

To make it more interesting, Sohini offered a modern tweak. She played a popular Punjabi pop song on her speaker and demonstrated how its rhythm resembled traditional bhangra beats. The group tried, fusing a folk boliyan with a contemporary beat, giggling as they struggled through the process.

By the end of the day, the hall was alive with music and conversation. The teenagers were encouraged and asked to create a small music group to continue practicing. Baldev offered to teach the sarangi, while Amarjeet agreed to locate a dhol instructor. Sohini recorded the session with her heart full. This was more than research; it was a spark, an opportunity to keep the music alive.

Sohini paid her final visit to the Golden Temple before returning to Kolkata. She sat by the sarovar, the temple's reflection in the lake, reflecting on her trip to this point. Amarjeet joined her, his presence as strong as ever.

"You've done something special," he stated. "The village hasn't been this alive in years."

Sohini smiled, her notebook full of new stories. "I could not have done it without you. Or Harpreet or Baldev. This is your music and your home."

He shakes his head. "It is ours now. "You are a part of it."

They sat silently, listening to the kirtan coming from the temple. Sohini felt the strands of her journey...Kolkata's baul songs, Punjab's folk music, and the train that had brought her here...weaving together to create something new. Her thesis would be more than just a paper; it would be a tribute to harmony and the ability of music to bridge cultures.

Sohini knew she'd return as she boarded the train back to Kolkata with Amarjeet's address neatly tucked into her satchel. The music, the people, and the stories were now a part of her, like a never-ending song.