Only some sixty years ago, a rather dark complexioned old man with beautiful facial features dictated to me a letter addressed to his father whom he had left behind in Aligarh. While I was dedicatedly following his voice notes, he too seemed to follow whatever I was transferring on to the paper.

Additionally, he instructed me to write “Salaam from this writer to the reader of this letter,” which obviously meant that the receiver of the letter would also need to have it read out.

When it came to the address of the sender (near Lahore Railway Station), which in Urdu script involved a lot many semi circles ending in a bigger one. The old man, out of curiosity, asked me as to what that meant. I told him that it was (Railway) Station. Then I put a number of dots in the various alphabets, which he interpreted as train passengers. As a second thought, I also put an alif before it which he thought stood for the ‘signal.’ I added a slanting shape at the upper end of the alif, which he took to mean that ‘signal is down.’ He was quite satisfied with my ‘competence’ and it made me think as to how script must have evolved from pictography.

After the dictation was over, the old man lamented the fact that even though he was from Aligarh he had never been to a school. He also felt embarrassed that he had disclosed his family secrets to me while dictating that letter.

The old man had migrated to Pakistan along with his two children and a wife. He had bought two thatched huts shaded by peepal trees near Dai Anga Mosque for Rs 80. He mesmerised people when he played on his bamboo flute. It was both his passion and profession — he made flutes out of thin bamboo reeds, making six holes, big and small, by puncturing with a red hot iron rod. He would then polish them and later arrange them over a bamboo stick and head towards Anarkali, playing melodious yet sad tunes on his flute along the way.

Another flute seller from Bhoondpura would throw a musical contest — he would take his flute out of his mouth and shake it like a thermometer to remove any saliva on it. Sawan kay badlo versus Pakistani film Naukar’s Raaj dulaaray mein tay vaari vaari jawaan and, later, Bhagaan walio. Mercifully, my future mentor decided to call it a day.

As he was heading home, still playing on his flute, I alighted from my Hercules bicycle with a cane basket and a dynamo lamp and inquired as to why he had withdrawn for the contest. His response was that he had made a sale of Rs 3 on that day and didn’t need more. I asked him that if I took lessons from him how much would he charge. His fee was Rs 5 per month, and another rupee for the flute. I gave him the sole rupee I had on me and headed home with the instrument.

It was a beautiful monsoon night. The full moon had emerged from behind the clouds to go back into oblivion. I poured all the air of my bellows-like young lungs into the flute with full force. Thereby, I created such dreadful, novel musical tunes that made the spinster daughter of our landlord scream a shut-up call. I did not expect this from her because she had been a heartthrob of many, including myself.

The good landlord never raised our house rental in all those years, but the flute episode could have us ejected.

The following day, I paid my full fee (Rs 5) instead of the traditional headgear, wheat flour and gurh (jaggery), and became the flute player’s pupil or disciple. Practicing the sargam (Sa ray ga ma pa dha ni sa, dha pa ma ga ray sa”) was my first lesson. Soon I learnt that a flute has only six holes and the seventh sur (note) is to be concocted by blocking lower five holes firmly with one’s fingers, leaving the uppermost open and pouring a stronger air from one’s windpipe.

The people in the neighbourhood must’ve been in jitters at this noise pollution which, I’m sure, was quite above the tolerable levels. Fortunately, before a delegation could petition, the landlord shifted to his newly built bungalow.

I seemed to have won the day. I gave my address to my mentor on a piece of paper which he, being illiterate, could not read or decipher. But he had his own street wisdom to guide him.

Later in the evening, he treaded towards my ‘indicated’ residence, playing my favourite lyrics on his flute, quite like the Pied Piper. He was confident that upon hearing the Pahari raga, I would emerge from my hideout. I, too, responded with a raga of my own creation, from my balcony. (As for the raga, the youngsters of the time, who must’ve grown old now, shared a heated altercation on it, trying to figure out if it was Bherween or Malkons. At one point they all agreed that it was frightening. Which explains why that lady had issued the clarion shut-up call.)

I saw my mentor from my balcony; he was down in the street. But, metaphysically, he as a mentor was on a higher plinth while I was on the pedestal level. I could see him holding yellow, red and black flutes, decorated with copper and tin foils, all arranged over a bamboo stick. He tried to correct my tunes while I insisted on using my own fiddles. Late Chaudhary Ghias, a photographer for The Pakistan Times, dismounting from his Panther motorcycle, clicked a historical snap.

Descending our winding stairs, I opened the big door for him. As my mentor ascended, he began reciting Sawan kay baadlo, unsay ja kar mera salaam kehna, his forehead was moist with perspiration. The acoustics of the closed space with various curvatures of Antoni Gaudi-like geometry had inspired him. I tried to reciprocate with the song, Aji bas shukaria, saari saari raat teri yaad sataay, which he must have found to be besura (off-tune).

I invited him upstairs but over each step he was enjoying his own voice box capabilities. He felt as if it were reverberating echoes from his Aligarh days.

My mother was very angry over my indulgence in music, because I wasn’t seen prepping for my looming matriculation exam. In protest, I went to bed without having my dinner. Soon she woke me up for a dish of ladyfinger she had cooked. Such is motherly love and affection.

The following week, my mentor received a letter from his father in Aligarh which I, even without opening it, could imagine must’ve ended thus: “Likhnay walay ka parrhnay walay ko salaam.”

(This dispatch is dedicated to Fiyaz Ali Shah, my music teacher)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk