Some days, I hallucinate about the Roman Catholic churches, which sung the Gregorian chants for mass.
The church would almost always have ceilings that touch the skies and more often than not, the ceilings would be adorned in frescos…the fall Of Man, Judgment Day, The Rise of Son of God…
The tiny streams of light coming in through colored glass pictures - which took many glassmakers the major part of their lives to craft - would create the feeling of being in a garden made of glasses.
The men, and the women, would sit in stony quietness on the two neatly laid out rows of benches made of black teak wood. The silence of man talking to god would as always, be deafening.
And then, high above them, from invisible vantage points near the roof, the opening notes would play down. It would start as a tiny note of the grand piano. Then there would be the quivering voice of the tenor. The shiver in his voice would then be complemented by the deep strong voice of the bassists. The sopranos would take their cue and music would begin its life journey. The sounds of a thousand throats under the frescoed ceiling would then join the singing from above. Man and man, women and women, would come together to sing for the lord.
The power of music would never fail to drain out all worldly differences. There would no longer be white, black, brown, old, young, freckled or supple skin. There would not be the poor, the rich, the once poor and now rich or any other permutations of life’s situations.
There would only be music that transforms one’s senses. Transformation from mere mortals, to the one standing in front of god, gazing at his greatness, feeling small at the strength of it all….
Once in a while, when I am insane enough to travel into the night with just the silence of Whito by my side, my hands would search for the CD I marked ‘Gregorian chants’. With Whito his silent self, and the Latin chants washing all over me, I would make my connection with God. I would hold my private conversation with Him, with His favourite music setting the background.
Me, and the world, have no one to thank but a group of monks who lived centuries a go in penury, for the greatness of god. They believed that god’s name was beautiful and so had to be his music.
Unknown monks of the generations past, I thank thee for bringing me the most beautiful sounds in my life.
Ave!
