Book Review: Finding the Demon’s Fiddle: On the Trail of the Ravanhattha

Book: Finding the Demon’s Fiddle: On the Trail of the Ravanhattha

Author: Patrick Jered

Publisher: Tranquebar/Westland

Pages: 606

Rs: 699

One magical night in Jaisalmer, Patrick Jered hears a sound that yanks him from his sleep, a sound that he initially thinks is coming from one of the insects that terrify him. And then the noise becomes melody, and the more he listens, the more Jered falls under the spell of both the music, like "the desert singing into the night", and the instrument.

That element of spellbound wonder permeates this delightfully quirky and difficult-to-categorise work, the product of that single magical interlude, which gives birth to an obsession. The book is as much homage to the lore of the ravanhattha as it is a travelogue, as much a personal journey as academic documentation. And through it all runs a strain of gentle, self-deprecating, unfailingly perceptive humour that makes the reader's journey all the more rewarding.

In interviews published online, Jered has spoken of his apprehensions about the marketability of his book, considering the aforementioned difficulty one faces while slotting it. Indeed, in many passages, Jered transcends the realm of mere non-fiction and produces truly inspired prose – sample this, for instance: "It felt, once again, like the universe had scripted the last few days and had swept me along as an unwitting protagonist."

At the core of Jered's book is his quest for the origin of the ravanhattha, the 'demon's fiddle', so called because it purportedly derives its name from the demon king Ravan, and is, well, a fiddle. Those familiar with Rajasthani folk music will have no trouble identifying the ancient instrument, nor the haunting strains that rise from its strings. In the grip of an obsession that comes only to a blessed few, Jered travels through vast chunks of India and Sri Lanka (the mythical home to Ravan, of course), trying to ferret both the origin and subsequent influence of the ravanhattha, as well as how, in modern times, it has come to be the almost exclusive purview of the Bhopas, a community in Rajasthan which worships the deity Pabuji, once a folk hero.

As a musician himself, Jered recognises the possible kinship between the ravanhattha – the name of the instrument literally translates into 'Ravan's arm (haath)' – and the violin, an instrument which he plays after a fashion.

Jered begins his four-month journey, mingling, endlessly searching and researching, and deliberately refusing to stick to a plan, as a trained writer would probably do. As his approach, so his voice is refreshingly untutored and relaxed. His documentation is painstaking, but never loses its spontaneity. His delight at every new discovery is conveyed effortlessly to the reader.

Perforce, most of his research is confined to Rajasthan, and he quietly and humbly reaches out to, and is embraced by, the Bhopas, his rickshaw boy who almost becomes a son, an itinerant Frenchman, a cook who makes the worst coffee in the universe, and the owner of a guest house, among many others. These are characters that stay with you long after the journey is over, which means the journey is never over, really.

As the trail leads him to Madhya Pradesh (which actually has a village called Ravan) and thence to Sri Lanka, the journey becomes ever more fascinating. In Buddhist Trincomalee, for instance, Jered actually makes a connection between Ravan, Zen and Shaolin monks.

If one were to split hairs, one could probably say that the very lack of tutoring that makes this book such an enjoyable read sometimes creates hurdles in the form of repetitive phrases, where one senses Jered struggle a little to expand his descriptive powers. However, that is a quibble directed more toward his editors than to him.

The length of the book becomes insignificant in the face of Jered's delightful, lucid style and obvious passion. Admittedly, travel narratives that transcend the physical journey and turn inward are nothing new. Right from Jack Kerouac's On the Road to Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love and taking in the best of Pico Iyer, Paul Theroux, Bill Bryson and William Dalrymple on the way. One senses a similar transcendence in Jered's work, which enables this amateur musician who holds a routine job in Amsterdam transform into a spiritual traveller whose music comes from the heart. In the end, his book requires no categorisation.