Prakhar Amba is an accomplished photographer and regular contributor to the Grenoble Life Gallery, including these magical ones of Fête de la musique 2009 in Grenoble. The pictures suggested a story, and Grenoble Life invited Prakhar to tell his …

by Prakhar Amba

Whenever I ask the French what they miss most when they visit foreign countries, the most common responses in order of priority are le pain and le fromage. There is never a third response. Now I am an Indian, a country best described by the word ‘diversity’, be it languages, colours, smells, spices or music.  Music is everywhere in India, it is in the loudspeaker playing the latest Bollywood hit, the brass band blaring in a marriage procession, the cacophonous symphony of the tuc tuc’s horn as it criss-crosses the traffic, or the prayers at the banks of holy rivers. Life for us revolves around music. After all, even our Gods are master of their own musical instruments, be it Krishna’s flute or Shiva’s daamru.

Needless to add, the thing about India I miss the most is music. Here in Grenoble, the streets are silent, even the traffic is muted. So I anxiously awaited La fête de la musique on June 21st, and I was not disappointed. But how does one write about music? After all, Victor Hugo said “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent”. Words fail me, but maybe images say it better, for they are stuck forever in the moment when the singer lets go and you are immersed in the note never to escape. So I set off for the centre ville in the pleasant Sunday afternoon on my metro vélo with my camera. The wind blowing in my hair, my ears open to catch any musical notes floating by. And the soft notes of violins pull me to the church next to Place Victor Hugo.

Here a group of children played their violins. Ah violins! There already is something mystical about its curves and the mirrored ‘s’. To behold the sight of kids nimbly working the strings and the accompanying gasps from the parents is quite something. After all, music is not only played by the musician but has to be appreciated by the listeners. It reminded me of a poem by Tagore I read in school which spoke of music being born from the crash of the sea waves (player) on the shore (listener). Music of the wind (player) rustling through the forest (listener) and here before me was the same interplay between the player and the listener.

To add to the magic of the moment was the conductress who, through the swish and swirl of her hands, wove tales of love and despair in the music.

I also found a little cherubin sitting in a corner, practicing her violin with her friends. You know the shot which makes you smile, when you know you captured the moment right. For me it was this. I don’t know the music they played, Vivaldi or Beethoven, it didn’t matter for me. For me a smile played on the faces of everyone present. The performance ended, and endless claps and graces later the group dispersed. The violins are packed in their cases for another day.

I move on to another street where a girl sings enchantingly. She sings in English but music knows no language and it is appreciated by all. She sings jazz, or was it blues or maybe folk? I know not. For me she sung from her heart, she sung of love and longing.

Sometimes I wonder why most of our songs are about love and the most beautiful of them are those of love lost.  Maybe it’s because we as humans fare poorly in expressing our love for another through words that we burst into a song to do the same. No doubt in Bollywood every expression of love is faithfully followed by a song. To say ‘I love you’ to someone for the first time is never going to be easy until you practice it a hundred times, setting it to the tune of your favorite song. Even mystically speaking, Sufism is for instance a facet of Islam in which divine love for God is expressed through music. Similarly with Hindus, the Bhakti tradition is love songs for the mystical lover, Krishna.

And now its time for some punk – around the corner a group plays with the lead singer swaying in her skirt causing the traffic to snarl down while onlookers gulp down glasses of beer. I thought France was more about wine but it seems with music it has to be beer. Music beckons me to move forward, somewhere from a narrow alley flows a song in a language which I know not of. Maybe it’s Spanish or Portuguese or Zulu, I care not for I can move to the beats of the drum and the singer, she has nirvana written all over her face. She sings as if she is in a trance.  I imagine she sings of reunion with her lost lover for otherwise I cannot explain her expression.

She opens her eyes and all is silent. We wait maybe for a cue before everyone breaks into applause. A moment of awakening. And then there is guitar solo. The guitar is I believe one of the most versatile instruments, from the Spanish to the electric it has a certain aura about it and can break into the most beautiful and unexpected notes. So here was the guy who performed a duo with the girl with the drums and made people tap their feet.

I move on towards the Gare but the streets are silent so I decide to explore the river side. On the bridge from where you can see the cable car (les bulles) are a group of musicians preparing their gig. So I cross over to reach the lane of Italian pizzerias. I find Grenoble to be a gastronomical delight even compared to Paris, for here you can find good Indian restaurants and also authentic pizza. Coming back to matters of music, a delightful sight beholds me. It’s dancing skirts or, as my dad remarked on seeing the photos, dancing lehengas. Now lehenga is traditional Rajasthani dress worn by the bride at Indian marriages. One can always find similarities between cultures.

I first thought they were Italians – after all I was standing outside a pizzeria – but the music, no, it carried tones of South America and yes, they were Colombians. The music had the energy to make your foot tap but the best part was the swirling skirts, the elegance. Enough to make the passing cars honk to the beats of music. Yes, it felt like India where the traffic contributes to the music of life. It got better when I meet a friend there who introduced me to the group. The girl in maroon is the sister of the girl in pink and the one in red is their mother. The little girl whose expression I call ‘I dream of Jeannie’ is the daughter of the girl in pink. So we had three generations dancing and singing together.

Now, about the little girl. Do you know the American serial ‘I dream of Jeannie’ where the Genie granted you your three wishes by twitching her eyes? This little girl was just like her. I wonder what she wishes me. I was granted my three wishes, good music, good photographs and memories of back home. Later, I joined the group for a drink in a café nearby. See the benefits of the La fête de la musique? Making new friends. So we sat and discussed, I a little humbled in presence of such talented musicians and singers. When the question popped up – what instrument do I play? I replied, ‘none’, for I am the listener, I am the one who appreciates their magic.

Evening falls and I walk in the small lanes along Bastille where different styles of music, French, African, American, and from all nooks and corners of this wide world, fuse together to create a new symphony of harmony. We may have barriers of languages between us but music joins us for we can dance to any rhythm. Another thing I noticed was how there was space for all different kinds in the same small lane, it teaches us small lessons of co-existence with the other.

Later I walked back to Place Victor Hugo and now the space was taken by the rock gigs and an endless mass of people moving around. It was heartening to walk in the city awake even late at night, people breaking into spontaneous dances, some kissing and some holding hands. It felt good to be a part of the crowd, felt like home. To end, my favorite French instrument, I encountered it in 2000 when I first visited Paris. I still don’t know its name but it has its charms. I visited Sacré Coeur in Montmarte and there was an old man with a red cap turning little punch cards into it with a lever and out flowed music that reminded me of childhood. So here it was again in Grenoble.

Related Posts:

• Art and music for all – an interview with VSArt’s Meredith Charreyron
• Grenoble Photowalk – a story in photos
• The history of Grenoble in two short blogs (part II)
• One Monday at Montessori International
• One Monday at Montessori International (part III)