As I entered the area of Rabindra Sarobar along with Kaushikda, a sudden transformation took place. Whether it was the coolness in the atmosphere, the calmness of the water or the casual strolling in spacious surroundings, I don't know. Don't wish to bother. But it suddenly soothed the nerves like a Bhairavi sung in the early morning.

I was suddenly deaf to Kaushikda's words and so was I dumb in my responses. The people around did not matter. The long spiralling along a twisting and turning lake provided the ideal spot to ramble; to stop and stare; to wait in the dark and watch the stars. This would be the perhaps the spot where Wordsworth would write another Daffodils. Huge gulmohar trees; shedding their leaves and heralding the onset of spring; would soon be covered in a fiery red umbrella. It would be a sight to savour this red colour competing with the sun's fury early in the morning or late at night.

Oh! If only I could paint!

Rabindra Sarobar is a favourite picnic spot for the Kolkatans. Young and old, men and women, all come here to spend a peaceful time together. Like Victoria Memorial or Deshpriya Park, this too is a haven for lovelorn couples. Kaushikda tells me that policemen patrol the area after sunset and pick up (unmarried) couples in compromising positions. They are then marched to the local police station and there, the respective parents are called. These 'kids' are handed over to the parents with supporting comments of 'where' and 'how' they were caught. Funny! Very Funny!

There were a lot of trees in the vicinity with flocks of twittering birds hidden amongst the leaves. My grandfather would have told me of the cuckoo and the robins and the other birds just by their noises. I avoid exposing my ignorance in that aspect. But the noise was such that it made any talk impossible. Then there were those health conscious men and women talking their jogs and walks respectively. It reminded me of Jogger's Park. The similarity ends there though, for this place was more natural and the people less affluent.

There is a small bridge at one end - la Howrah Bridge; built in 1926 by a British company. It leads to an island and a mosque is set there amidst the lake. The characteristic greenish white walls and green doors of the mosque are not visible till you actually reach there. There is a surrounding wall enclosing this mosque and the walls are pink in colour - very uncharacteristic! The domes of the mosque also are not typical Mohameddan in style and somewhere sway between a mosque and a temple. Had it not been for the discoloured walls surrounding the mosque, it would have gelled beautiful with the green surroundings.

As one stands on the Bridge, one can see a vast expanse of water with another small island in the middle. There are a few boating clubs and a few boats can be seen in this beautiful expanse. A few birds fly up in the sky in beautiful rows forming an upturned, disciplined V.

The scene is set for a small Shikara afloat and Pt. Shiv Kumar Sharma tuning his santoor for a Twilight Melody - maybe Shree or Lalit.

Lalit is played in the early twilight, in the period between dawn and early morning, while Shree is a companion of the late twilight, between dusk and early evening. Lalit brings optimism, a breath of freshness as Panditji's tones reach a tempo bringing a beautiful morning from the valley of Kashmir right at your doorsteps. One can just imagine the sun rising, the shikaras in early morning going along the Jhelum for buying vegetables, with the huffed breaths of the boatsman coming out as smoke in the chilly wind. You can hear the water tinker with the santoor. The slow tunes reach a crescendo leaving you invigorated. Shree on the other hand is more sombre taking the past day away from you; making you aware that nothing has changed in the day. It floods you with past memories, of failures, of things you planned but could not achieve. As Samir loves to say, "If the soul is not going to be anguished, there is no purpose to listening to 'Shree'"

Or perhaps, Pt. Hariprasad Chaurasia could be sitting on one of the benches, legs neatly folded, his one leg shaking with control as he captures the beat - the sixteen beats of a Teentaal or the seven of Roopak, with his flute and the late night stars. The air would be perfumed with a thousand flowers of Raat ki Rani or Nishigandh and then the lilting tunes of Madhuvanti would fill the air.

My dreams of music could have continued but it was night. The Sarobar area has no lights (making it more romantic) and so we had to come out.

There is a small Buddhist temple right outside the Sarobar, where Lord Buddha sits in a meditative pose. It was the first time I visited a Buddhist temple and the ambience was singularly different. Whenever I see the Buddha my thoughts invariably lead to the poet Grace's words, where he says that: "A person travelling on the blind path of self-realisation always meets one fellow traveller somewhere - Siddhartha." He then goes over to propound how rather than Buddha's teachings; it is his travel from Siddhartha to Buddha that is more alluring; more important too! Siddhartha was troubled not even by the smallest of pains, and when he saw the various pains in life, his royal existence was shaken. He started off right in the middle of the night to find out the solution. He did not accept the set rules; neither did he accept that pain can be covered up by preaching about idol-worship and begging for God's pity. He wanted to find out his own path, his own solution. I read Grace's words much before I could understand them, and Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha came later. But whenever I see Buddha, thoughts still lead to Siddhartha.

I was quiet as we walked along the darkened paths from the temple towards Gariahat. Kaushikda stopped in between me and took a detour, "I want to show you something that I know you will like."

In a small by-lane he showed me a house saying this is where Sachin Dev Burman lived. He was first sceptical but as we approached the gate, the nameplate on the wall said it all; in black letters on a white tile -

SHACHIN DEV BURMAN

The totally unexpected never fails to catch me in an ecstatic mood, and this wasn't any different. Imagine me standing in front of the place where Burmanda had composed innumerable, unforgettable compositions. It was the house of one of the most sweet and vastly gifted music composers of a bygone era - simple and unassuming like its master. Imagine him welcoming some of the great musicians, singers, and artists at this bungalow, or imagine him standing on the first floor terrace; reclining on one of the pillars looking out into the sky. Would it be here that he would have composed "Safal hogi teri aradhana kahe ko roye?"

And then imagine the toddler Panchamda learning his first tunes here, as he would have looked in awe-filled confusion at all the people coming to his house. Imagine him learning the difference between a Shudha Nishaad and a Komal Nishaad through a rendering of Chandrakauns and Maalkauns.

In spite of all these imaginations what clearly stands out in memory is the simple gesture of Kaushikda as he gently caressed the nameplate while he was trying to verify the owner's identity.

That dust would have definitely smelt different.

Thank you, Kaushikda for such a cherished memoir!