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Little Flute, Why So Proud?
 Guest Article by Vidya Rao
What a privilege to have received this piece from Vidya-ji. Before the article, a few introductory lines for the readers.
 Vidya Rao is a leading Indian performer of the delicate style of poorab ang thumri-dadra singing. For many years the disciple of the late Smt Naina Devi, Vidya has continued her study of this form under Smt Shanti Hiranand and Smt Girija Devi. Her initial training in khayal was under the late Prof B.N. Datta and thereafter under Pandit Mani Prasad. Her repertoire includes thumri, dadra, ghazal, the allied folk-derived forms such as kajri, chaiti, hori etc, as well as medieval devotional and mystic poetry of the Sufi and bhakti poets. She also writes — mainly on music and the performing arts. More here.
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Little Flute, Why So Proud?
In both Sufi and Vaishnavi traditions, the flute holds a special place. Jalaluddin Rumi begins his Mathnavi with the ‘nei’, the flute. The Vaishnav padavali repeatedly refers to, addresses and identifies with the flute. Empty, open-ended, allowing the breath of the Divine to flow through it, the flute is our abiding metaphor for the pure heart, the unfettered soul, and for the call of the Divine. It is a metaphor for the seeker, the devotee, the murid and bhakta, the lover—and indeed for the artist who is perhaps all of these.
And yet, the flute is a very simple, ordinary instrument. A humble reed, played by cowherds, the flute is also the symbol of pastoral simplicity. Indeed it was only as recently as the early years of the twentieth century, that Pannalal Ghosh revolutionised its role, making it a solo concert instrument.
Made of bamboo, the flute is earth-born, yet it contains air, the Breath of Life, Prana itself. Thus it brings together the heaviest and the lightest of the elements—that which is most rooted, most visible and tangible, and that which is imperceptible and inexperienceable, except in its absence.
Drawn by the flute’s voice, the cattle come home. And so it reminds us of who we are, and where home is. It tells us, as we wander blindly on life’s journey, that if we would but hear its call, we would know that we have a home, and that our home is the echoing emptiness of our own simple, beautiful self. Hearing the flute’s call, we drop our work. Our half-filled water-pots are forgotten, our kitchen fires burn untended. We forget the business of living. And forgetting, we remember the essence of life. Losing our wits, we find our senses.
Of the many bandishes and padas within the Indian musical tradition that speak of the flute, is this beautiful thumri, one that incidentally is adapted from a pada of the medieval poet-saint Surdas –Â Muralia kaun guman bhari:
Little flute, and so proud!
Not made of gold, or of silver
Nor even jewel-encrusted.
Little flute, why so proud?
Why so proud? The bandish asks. At first hearing, it appears that the bandish, or we who sing it/hear it, ask this of the flute. But singing and listening, we realize that we also ask this of ourselves. Not made of gold or silver, nor encrusted with precious gems—the flute is only a little piece of bamboo. We too — what are we after all, but tiny, unadorned reeds. And yet, deprecating though the bandish sounds at first hearing, it holds more meaning. Meaning flows endlessly through the bandish as air flows through the flute. The bandish tells us to know ourselves as the flute, and so, also tells us to understand what our true worth is.
That the flute is a metaphor for the self is also shared by the philosophical systems of yoga. These liken the 7 holes in the flute’s slender reed to the body’s 7 chakras or energy nodes. Only when these chakras are free of obstructions can the flute –or the self– resound with sweet music.
As flutes, sharing the nature of the flute, we are indeed small, frail, humble, of little consequence. Flute-like, equally, we hold within ourselves the emptiness that is the playground of Prana—of truth, beauty, of life itself. Recognizing this, we realize that there is much to be proud of now—but this is a different kind of pride. Not so much the vanity and false pride that comes from our shortsighted identifying with the things of the world—objects, relationships, position—it is instead a self-respect, an inner dignity, the knowledge of an ‘is-ness’ and a poise that come from an understanding of the flute’s – and therefore our— simplicity, the fullness and completeness of its empty space, the elemental paradox of earth and air.
The emptiness of the flute resounds in a beautiful Zen story: ‘How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup? the Zen master asks the novice as he pours fragrant tea into an already full cup. How can the heart that is filled with the noise and clamour of the world become the space for the flute’s sweet call? But emptied of opinions and ideas, unencumbered by the baggage of the past and its accretions, free of the fearful burden of the future, we become simple, unadorned, pared down to just our Self. We become truly beautiful. We are able to see and hear directly and clearly. Acting from this clarity, we then speak truly, live clean.
It is this clarity and emptiness that allow us to be creative, to create words and images and songs that shine with truth—to create what we call art, it is this emptiness that allows us to sing, dance, paint, write, or just live our ordinary lives beautifully, as if our life itself were a song.
Such a work of art, such a life, arising out of the empty flute or cup, frees us into emptiness. It gives us no answers; it is the ultimate riddle, the great paradox. Living thus, boundaries are blurred—and we experience the complete dissolution of self that Siraj Aurangabadi speaks of when he says: ‘You are not you, I, no more I. All that’s left is a loss of self!’ It is this blurring, this eternal questioning that creates a special moment, a special space, a special way of being.
To begin to understand this is to hear, if faintly, the call of Rumi’s flute—a call that was also heard by Sohni on one bank of  Hazrat Amir Khusrau’s ‘nadiya prem ki’—his river of love — and by the gopis of Brindavan on the other. It is to become the holder of the flute’s emptiness, to dissolve into that singing silence, that vibrant emptiness. It is to know what is meant by ‘fana ho jana’ , to lose oneself and so find one’s true Self.
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