Betcharatz

ible tune now and drifted towards the fishing area that extended about
half a mile around the only bridge in the village. Concern and frowns
took over the radiant smiles on many faces while the question as to
who was playing still remained open. Soon it became clear that a tam-
boura was inching its outlandish march across the water at dawn. The
slow meditative stammer must have served as an introduction for an
upcoming vivid shower of ebullient cheerful notes gushed from some-
body’s masterful hands.
‘Milosh, an old tamboura wizard!’, a flash of recognition shot
through fishermen’s eyes and almost immediately they spotted a boat
floating on top of the trail of light reflecting off the water.
Indeed it was Milosh S, the best tamboura player the village of
Turiya had ever seen or heard; drifting along the water on the wings
of music and playing a betcharatz in a most exuberant tempo. a man
who must have been his fellow player was sitting on the rudder silently
plunging his oar into the quiet water at a slow steady pace.
They must have been very drunk to indulge in such extravagance if
not folly of playing music at this time and place. What was even more
interesting was the fact that Milosh was one of the most passionate
fishermen himself. yes, only a fisherman drunk as a skunk could do
such a thing among the other fishermen at work. no one seemed to pay
any attention to the catch anymore. The floating music seemed to be
coming from the very tender soul of his tamboura that was now grow-
ing old and wise together with him. Its timbres had a peculiar softness
and resonance. Even the highest chirps could tickle the most sensitive
ears while the lowest drones reminded of the breadth and richness of
Turiya’s fields. Milosh S and his tamboura were truly one body and soul
that coalesced in the smoke-stuffed taverns and sleepless nights while
the prime of their life was being plucked note by note to please the
whims of drunkards, richmen, wedding party guests or simply music
lovers. The energy, even though poured generously, was never wasted.
It kept flowing from inspiration to performance in a wondrous unend-
ing spiral, while the hands became more and more skillful and the
tamboura more responsive. If it is true that every instrument yearns
for its destined player, and vice versa, then, in this case, this particular
player and his tamboura have fulfilled each other’s destinies.
That Monday morning it became obvious that Milosh and his band
had had another sleepless night and his large powerful body dragged
even more loads of fatigue and wine onto the next day. as they were
passing, fishermen did not share more words with them than the cus-
toms and common decency entailed, knowing too well Milosh’s odd,
unpredictable quirks. only those few who thought themselves to be
his cronies, attempted to throw in a joking remark or two in allusion
to his state and this very odd trip to the canal.
‘Been out with the Mischief, again, brother Milosh?’
‘Had another damn thirsty night, eh?’
‘If ya poor mums saw ya now, they’d pretend not to recognize you…!’
Milosh only nodded his large bald head and continued his conver-
sation with the instrument, this time in a more meditative and lyrical
mood. It was an old popular tune called “The Sunray’s Peeping”. all
of a sudden he accompanied the music in his droning lower baritone,
which was as rare as a snowfall in June.

‘The Sunray’s peeping
Through the branchlets
Look, it’s greeting
A newborn day

From the green grove
Chirp the birdlings…”

Fish was kicking and bouncing against the watery mirror now dotted
with the last remaining rags of fluffy mists still surviving the warm
lashes of the Sun. Perhaps they too were mesmerized by the music.
The man pulling at the oar was a young bass player from Srbobran,
a town about three miles downstream. He had a somewhat mottled
reputation of being a passionate lover of both cards and women. Hand-
some tanned face with a conspicuously black line of tiny moustache
according to the fashion of betchars. These young men passed their
time mostly in merrymaking and revelries, drinking parties and love
making. Heaps of lyrics were dedicated to their feats causing at times
both roars of laughter and signs of concern and public rebuke.
The lifestyle of betchars (fishermen or paors) flourished on the patch
of the same ground, namely the easy-going village life that ignored the
exactitudes of scheduled urban life and retained the privilege of choos-
ing how and when to spend one’s time. This was possible as long as
seasonal field chores did not impose their preponderant pressure. How-
ever, the true betchars went as far as to give the advantage to their pas-
sions rather than their duties while someone else had to shoulder the
load they so elegantly shunned and discarded. This was possible with
the unmarried rascals whose parents still held the ghost of their life’s
strength at their finger tips or who had brothers and cousins ready to
make up for their life-dodging fads. With no constraints contouring
ahead everything became possible and life often resembled a dream.
What was left was only an unquenchable passion for a free boisterous
chase of that beast within one’s very blood. This was perfectly mir-
rored in the musical form of the betcharatz: the galloping rhythm of
orchestral introduction would abruptly give way to very slow, sweeping
singer’s account of events from betchars’ and paors’ lives. Thousands
of images were encapsulated in the dialogues of voice and strings and
these turns of singers and tamboura strings would go on as long as the
magic of the audience, players, wine or setting allowed.
Milosh was a true loner who was travelling the paths of life yielded
to him by his vagrant passionate heart. He would periodically indulge
in compulsive drinking or heavy gambling testing the limits of both
human endurance and god’s tolerance. after volcanic periods of pro-