On some days, the streets of Flacq have their own music. People come and go with the usual urgency of village life. The shopkeepers or sellers stand at their doors, customers move from one shop to another, young people stare into the screens of their mobile phones, and the streets are filled with the familiar sounds of commerce and conversation. Yet, among all this movement, there is sometimes a voice that seems to come from another time.

That voice belongs to Mr. Bharuth, or so the owner of the voice tells me. He is a retired worker, now above 60, a family man who comes, he adds, from the neighbouring village of Rivière-du-Rempart. He does not look like the ordinary street singer. He is a tall man, looks athletic, with a striking face and an unusual bearing. At first glance, one might almost imagine him as an actor in an old western film dominated by Mexican cowboys. But instead of a horse, a saddle, and a wide frontier landscape, he carries a small handy loudspeaker powered by a battery.

And then he sings. His repertoire is made of Hindi film songs, particularly the sentimental and romantic songs of the 1970s. They are the songs of an era when emotion was expressed without embarrassment and when a simple melody could remain in the memory for decades. Mr. Bharuth especially enjoys the songs made famous by Kishore Kumar and associated with the romantic films of Rajesh Khanna. He sings one or two stanzas of a song. Then, without ceremony, he moves to another. One song flows into the next, and the next into another. There is no stage, no ticket, no announcement, and no expectation of applause. His little loudspeaker is enough. The street is his theatre, and the passing crowd is his audience.

Few Stop, Many Walk On

Yet very few people actually stop. Most continue walking towards the far end of the street, where clothes shops, standing cheek by jowl to food outlets, attract shoppers. Others pause briefly at the stalls selling colourful covers for mobile phones. Many people, I notice, carry two mobile phones and a pair of sunglasses on their heads. Some are absorbed in loud conversations, others in their screens. At the corner, people queue at the Hare Krishna outlet to buy cakes and other items.

But Mr. Bharuth sings on. At first glance, one might think he is indifferent to the attitude of passersby. He does not seem disappointed when nobody stops. He does not ask for attention, nor does he try to persuade anyone to listen. He simply continues singing. I suspect he knows perfectly well that people hear him, and listen.

I watch the faces of those who pass. Some older adults do not stop. But something changes in their expression. A slight smile appears. A distant look enters the eyes. For a brief moment, they seem transferred somewhere else, time back – to youth, to courtship, to cinema halls, to a song once dedicated to someone they loved, Mere Mehboob. There is, in those expressions, a small but unmistakable feelgood factor nostalgia adding to it.

The younger people appear more curious. Some may be discovering these beautiful songs for the first time. Others already know them through YouTube, where the melodies of Kishore Kumar and the films of Rajesh Khanna have found a new generation of listeners.

So, the street of Flacq becomes a strange meeting place between generations owing to Mr. Bharuth. He stands there, tall and dignified, singing songs from another age, the age of my youth. The crowd moves around him, hardly stopping, yet carrying his music away with them. Perhaps that is the destiny of a true troubadour: not to gather a crowd, but to leave a little melody behind in the hearts of people who were merely passing by.