The sweetness of the shehnai has been snatched away
By day it is a hot, dusty town that has long forgotten to differentiate between resident and visitor. All an inextricable part of the mass that rushes up and down the narrow streets of Varanasi. Patient, unmoved cows meet angry cars in traffic snarls and rickshaws win the day.
By day there is work, worship - the everyday bustle.
Then, the shadows lengthen. Ancient mysteries awakened, the daily grind has given way to the promise of once upon a time. It's time to head for the ghats of the Ganga. Where a vantage perch will throw up the cycle of life in one sweep of the horizon. On the left, a pyre smoulders down to the embers that will be ash tomorrow. On the right, a celebration of life as last paeans are sung to the Gods before the many priests call it a day.
Across, a giant flaming orb prepares to sink gratefully into the cool of the mammoth river. It hangs in there for the next few minutes, daring you to freeze the moment. That's the time to set sail in a boat. In pursuit of all that will overwhelm the senses.
Or almost all. Before today, there was always the chance, were you lucky as I was, that from the huge boat that sailed alongside, bedecked with flowers and tremulous lights only now coming on, would waft the first mellifluous strains of the Ustad's shehnai. As if on cue, the sun would start its descent.
And then, as you held your breath, the concert would begin. Three boats - your inconsequential vessel tagging along, another on the other side laden with cameras and Bismillah Khan's water-borne stage with more cameras, light, action. All sailing down the Ganga, which would now be shedding her passive, benign form of a few hours ago.
He would play uninterrupted, the crew shooting him would tiptoe around to get their job down and you'd crouch in gratitude that you picked this moment to be where you were.
For those who love Varanasi, the Ustad has for ever been an integral part of its mysticism. To imagine the town without him is to imagine it without the quaint, narrow streets, the places of worship, the cham-chams, the wooden toys or even the unmistakable air of fulfilment. From the many sounds of the temple town, the sweetness of the shehnai has been snatched away.