“Coming after the death of my father and brother, this sent me mad with grief: I was shattered, and blamed myself. I stayed at home for weeks and then I decided I couldn’t remain in the village any longer; I must make a new life for myself. It was then that I remembered Gyananand Sadhu, the Baul guru who had heard me singing when I was bathing in the pukur as a boy. I had loved the way he sang just as much as he liked my voice. I knew that his ashram was near Rampurhat, so I decided to go and see if he would take me on as his disciple, his chela.
“My mother and other sister were very angry at my decision. They said, ‘Why are you going? Don’t you care for us?’ I was very sad to leave them in this way, but I had a feeling this was what I needed to do in order for the family to survive. I was always very religious, but it wasn’t just that; it seemed a practical decision too. A blind man cannot be a farmer, but he can be a singer.
“Ever since I was a boy I had been picking up holy songs and bhajans, and all through my childhood I used to sing the songs of the Bauls, and the shyama Kali sangeet of the Tantric sadhus, playing the spokes of my father’s bullock cart with a stick, like a drum. Because I had a good voice the sadhus and the Bauls loved me, and all the villagers would gather around when I sang; but it was the songs themselves that led me to the life of a singer. I said to myself, I will treat singing the songs as my form of devotion, my sadhana, and put my whole heart into it. That way I can live the life of the heart—and also save money to send to my mother and sister. At that moment, when my fortunes were at their lowest, it was my ability to sing that saved me.
“It was the season of the rains. I caught a bus to Tarapith, and changed buses there, and late that evening I arrived in Mallarpur, near Rampurhat, where Gyananand Sadhu’s ashram was located. It was raining very heavily, and as it was late there was no one about to ask for directions. When I got off the bus, the water was already ankle-deep. As I walked on in the direction that the conductor had sent me, straight along the road, the water got deeper until it was up to my thighs. There was no one around to help, and there was nothing to do but carry on, even as the water rose to my waist and the thunder boomed overhead.
“But I persevered, and despite my fears, the road turned out to be the right one. Climbing a small hill, I hit dry land. Soon after that I came to the gate of the ashram. I was drenched, it was the middle of the night, and I expected to be turned away. But instead the chowkidar ushered me straight into the presence of Gyananand. The moment he saw me, he said, ‘I have been waiting for you. I always knew that boy in the pukur would come to me sooner or later.’ He welcomed me warmly, gave me food and dry clothes and took me on as his chela. I stayed there seven years, wandering in the cold season and staying with Gyananand in his akhara during the rains. He provided for my mother and sister, and gave me money to take home to them.
“I joined the Bauls partly because it seemed the only way I could make a livelihood. But my guru soon taught me that there are much more important things than getting by, or making money, or material pleasures. I am still very poor, but thanks to the lessons of my guru, my soul is rich. He taught me to seek inner knowledge and to inspire our people to seek this too. He told me to concentrate on singing and did not encourage me to take the path of a Tantric yogi, though I have picked up a lot of knowledge of this sort from other sadhus and Bauls over the years.”
“Is it a good life?” I asked.
“It is the best life,” said Kanai without hesitation. “The world is my home. We Bauls can walk anywhere and are welcome anywhere. When you walk you are freed from the worries of ordinary life, from the imprisonment of being rooted in the same place. I cannot complain. Far from it—I am often in a state of bliss.”
“But don’t you miss your home? Don’t you tire of the road?”
“When you first become a Baul, you have to leave your family, and for twelve years you must wander in strange countries where you have no relatives. There is a saying, ‘No Baul should live under the same tree for more than three days.’ At first you feel alone, disorientated. But people are always pleased to see the Bauls: when the villagers see our coloured robes they shout: ‘Look, the madmen are coming! Now we can take the day off and have some fun!’
“Wherever we go, the people stop what they are doing and come and listen to us. They bring fish from the fish ponds, and cook some rice and dal for us, and while they do that we sing and teach them. We try to give back some of the love we receive, to reconcile people and offer them peace and solace. We try to help them with their difficulties, and to show them the path to discover the Man of the Heart.”