There Are Seven Notes

Sudha Balagopal

ROMAN Bookswww.romanbooks.co.in

All rights reserved.Copyright © 2011 Sudha Balagopal

ISBN 978-93-80905-04-4Typeset in Palatino Linotype

First Published 20111 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents areused ficitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons

living or dead is entirely coincidental.‘Singing Lessons’ orignially appeared in Catamaran Magazine,

‘Ravi’s Ragas’ originally appeared in Driftwood, ‘Geting Critical’ originally appeared in Muse India,

‘The Music Teacher’ originally appeared in 4indianwoman.com‘Priya’s Pursuit’ originally appeared in The Blue Fog Journal,

‘Dynasty’ originally appeared in the anthology, In Pursuit of thePerfect Gourmet Garam Masala, Skrev Press, 2007, U.K.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication DataA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ROMAN Books2nd Floor, 38/3, Andul Road, Howrah 711109, WB, India

www.romanbooks.co.inThis book is sold under the condition that it can not be resold or lentor hired out in any form of cover or binding other than that in whichit is originally published and no section of this book can be republishedor reproduced in any form (photocopying, electronic or any other)without the writen permission from the publisher. The same conditions arealso imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any violation of the abovementioned conditions might be considered as a breach of CopyrightAct and may lead the violator to face severe legal penalties.For more details please refer to the Copyright Act of your country.

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Ravi’s Ragas

Vani and Neel blinked their tentative way into theauditorium as they searched for their seats. She locatedthem first, smiled with relief, and tugged at Neel’s hand topull him toward two vacant seats in the third row. They slidacross the rows, trying to avoid stepping on well-shod feet,which were moved out of the way in haste. Over and over,Vani whispered “excuse us” to apologize for the intrusion.Their chairs squeaked loudly as they sat down.

She winced as a large man on the stage turned in theirdirection before looking down at a sheet of paper he heldin his hand. Then the suit-clad man made hisannouncement from the podium. “Welcome to tonight’sconcert. As President of Music Circle. I would like towelcome our artists to the United States. This is their firsttrip to this country.”

Polite applause followed his statements. He paused for the applause to subside before

introducing the vocalist, Geetha Iyer. Then, he gave theaudience a brief sketch of her accomplishments.

Next, he turned toward the violinist. “And, tonight,accompanying Mrs. Geetha Iyer on the violin is a veteranmusician whom many of you may remember from the late

seventies, Mr. Ravi Murthy.” Vani did not hear anything else the announcer said.Her purse slid gently to the floor, hands lay ice-cold in

her lap, so weak and nerveless she could not have held afeather. She kept her eyes on her hands, brown nail polishclashed against the bright pink sari. A cold tingle began inher numb fingers and traveled through her body, coursedthrough her veins and seemed to emerge at her toes. Shelaced her fingers together to stop them from shaking andclenched them in a fierce grip.

Neel whispered into her ear, as he lifted the cuff of hisshirt to sneak a look at his watch. “We are a litle late, eh?”

Vani did not answer. Her heart fired out beats like amachine gun; she could not hear him. He tapped her on theshoulder. She nodded as if she was a robot; her head wasfrozen like an ice-block, not a cogent thought in it. Hetapped her again.

“We should have left home a couple of minutes earlier,”he said.

She nodded again without answering him. Then shedrew in a deep breath, and lifted her head to look straightahead. Perhaps Neel’s suggestion to wear that bright pinksari was a bad one. Slowly, she turned her head toward himlifted a finger and put it to her lips. “Shhhh..” she hissedsoftly before turning to face the stage again.

At that moment, Ravi, the violinist, who had a lull whilethe singer elaborated on a raga, looked out at the audience.His eyes located her. As his eyes met hers, Vani forgot tobreathe and her heart did a funny litle jig inside her chest.Ravi angled his head about thirty degrees and nodded toher. She stared back transfixed. Her clenched fingers wereback in her lap. She unclenched them one set of fingers at a

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time. Was there anything to read in that litle shake to hishead? Pleasure, joy, questions, or curiosity? She frowned asshe tried to concentrate on that nod.

But all she could focus on was Ravi’s hair. It was all graynow. The same thick shock, only it was not black. Before shecould return his nod, he went back to the concert. She sawthen that his waist was thicker, and he had acquired glasses.

Her hands still trembled a litle as if aftershocks weresending tremors through her. But after a few minutes, whenthe music knocked at her mind’s door and called to her, herheartbeats setled into the raga.

Then she heard the varnam, the piece they hadperformed years ago, a song in the complex patern offourteen beats that had taken her many months to perfect.Oh, he had struggled with the piece then. But it was perfectnow, in complete harmony with the vocalist. She watchedhim as he focused on the violin, saw his long, elegantfingers move expertly on the violin. She might have notbeen in the audience, he might never have nodded to her;so complete was his concentration.

Her music teacher brought them together for her firstperformance.

“It will be a nice ensemble,” the teacher said. “Vani, youhave to get used to performing with accompanists if youwant to be a serious vocalist. Ravi is also twelve, and heplays the violin well.”

Ravi was late for class that first day. Vani’s teacher madeher go through the piece on her own.

“Don’t run. Don’t run,” the teacher admonished. “You41

are like an express train. This has to be sung in two speeds,so if you accelerate like this in first speed, how can you singin second speed? Slow down, feel the song with your heart.This is not your multiplication table.”

Vani balled her fists, and prayed for the violinist to showup in the next few minutes, so she wouldn’t have to hearmore of this. He came in after she had been through thecomposition all the way twice; a small, intense fellow, shortenough and thin enough for her to have beat him up.

It irritated her to see how long he took to tune theinstrument and how calm he was.

“Hello, why are you so late, and why are you taking solong to tune the instrument?” she hissed.

“Why?” he looked at her quizzically.“Yes, why?”“Because the sky is so high!” He remained unperturbed.“What?” she stutered, taken aback by his strange

response to her question.“Because the sky is so high, it is the month of July, and

you don’t want to die,” he improvised.“Verrrry funny,” she stuck her tongue out at him.They were not going to get along. Besides he did not

know the song and she was stuck with him as anaccompanist. She could pinch his arm if she wanted to, shedecided. After all, she was the main singer.

He played the song and played the song and played thesong until she was ready to scream. The same song heplayed now, in a complex patern of fourteen beats.

Vani’s father taped her first performance and showed itoff to their friends and relatives. Every one of them wantedto know who the accompanying violinist was.

Her father’s sister commented, “He plays so well, he42

gives Vani such support as an accompanist! He allows herto shine.”

Vani squeezed her fists and grited her teeth. Every nowand then she put her right hand over her mouth and held itthere to seal her lips shut. Just in case she said somethingshe would regret. All the praise being heaped on him wasunbearable.

Once, after music class, he passed by as Vani and herfriends played a clapping game with some younger girls.

“Dip, dip, dipMy blue shipSailing in the water, Like a cup and saucer,Dip, dip, dip.”Ravi, that small, thin fellow, watched them, then shook

his head like an old man as he mutered, “Girls, girls! Girlsand their games!” Vani heard him.

If he was in class, she turned her face away from himand focused her atention on the teacher. If she saw him inthe hallway, she hitched up her shoulders, sometimessnorted at him to indicate that he was a pig and walkedright by without a word.

Vani’s friends teased her about him. They said shelikedhim.

“What a tragedy that would be. Liking this boy!” shescreamed at them.

She continued to ignore him. Vani and Ravi got invitedto perform again.

The music teacher was pleased. “Good job!” she said.“You have sown the first seeds of professionalism!”

Ravi played on cue, was there for practices on time andhe improved in his music. When she came in to class, she

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said, “Hello, teacher,” in a bright, cheery tone. He busiedhimself with his instrument and did not say a word. Whenthey left, she said, “Bye teacher,” picked up her music booksand walked away, head held high. But they did not talk toeach other. There were no hellos or goodbyes, nor werethere any words of encouragement given to each other.

They climbed up on the stage together, and smiled atthe world.

Once the words burst out of her, “Why are you like this,so serious and so religious about practices? I can’t stand it!”

Ravi, pious as always, answered, “Music is only onepercent inspiration for me. If I did not put in my 99 percentof perspiration, I wouldn’t be able to play the violin at all.”She rolled her eyes.

There was a nudge at her shoulder. Neel, her husband!Oh dear God! Did he know what a turmoil her mind wasin? Could he guess what a storm of emotions she was goingthrough? He leaned sideways to whisper in her ear, acuriously intimate gesture, so close she could smell the mintin his breath and his cologne.

Vani held her breath. But Neel did not ask about Ravi.The name did not seem to mean anything to him. She lether breath out slowly and squirmed in her seat.

“Did they say this raga is Kamavardhani? I’ve neverheard that name, but why is it so familiar?” he asked.

Now the performers were on to the third piece. Thesinger presented an elaborate prelude in the ragaKamavardhani.

“You are thinking of Pantuvarali,” she told Neel, getingthe five words out as quickly as she could. Then she added,realizing he wouldn’t know what she meant, “It’s the sameraga, just another name.”

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She did not want to atract atention to herself again. Butit was too late. Ravi had already seen them. Their eyeslocked. Ravi’s and Vani’s. His as unfathomable as ever. Washe as shocked to see her, as she was to see him? Was that ahint of reproach in his eyes? Censure?

She shook herself. She was missing a lot of the music. “Mind is grazing in the field,” her music teacher’s old

admonition came back to her. Vani smiled to herself andgave her head a small wobble. Then to hide her smile, shereached down to pick up her handbag. She opened it,fumbled for some chewing gum. Neel looked at her andraised his eyebrows in a mute question. She held out a stickof gum. How could she tell him her mind had traveled farinto the past, digging out much from the deep caverns ofher memories in those few minutes?

The singer gently eased her way into an ending of herraga elaboration and gestured to Ravi who readied himselfto begin his answer to her raga elaboration. The singer gavehim time now, to give the audience his interpretation of theraga. It was Ravi’s opportunity to be more than anaccompanist.

Vani chewed on her stick of gum. How ignorant she hadbeen; she had not realized what Ravi had been to her musicuntil it was too late.

Vani controlled the performance, but he anticipated. Heresponded to her music on the stage. She led and hefollowed, not knowing where she was leading him. Shenever talked to him. And while She knew what she wasgoing to sing, his performance had to be extempore.

As he improvised his brows came together inconcentration, his eyes narrowed to mere slits.

She tried to trick him. She sped up without warning, left45

him to do a solo when he wasn’t expecting to andsometimes interrupted his playing by singing when he leastexpected her to. She waited for an accidental trip and a fall,but he never tripped and he never failed her.

Never once did she compliment him. She was apprehensive when the teacher asked her to

perform an alapana, to improvise and inject her owncreativity into her music. But her teacher insisted.

“Carnatic music has had great composers,” the teachersaid. “They have given you the lyrics to a raga and theyhave composed fine songs. But just presenting thecomposition by itself is not enough. That is only aboutmemorization. Now you must show your creativity in theraga. That is what Carnatic music is all about.”

Vani’s presentation was certainly no improvisation. Shehad practiced the raga many, many times before theperformance, memorized the build up, and the paterningof the scales. If someone interrupted her, she lost her placein the patern.

It was the first time she looked at Ravi directly in theeye, to give him the “go-ahead” to start his raga alapana,the elaboration. He looked at her and smiled then.

Her heartbeats ground to a halt. She did not expectthem to. But they betrayed her, without warning. Was his aperformance smile? She could only guess.

Vani and Ravi formed an unseen bond, a bond sealedwithout any words. They communicated through a musicallanguage that only the two of them understood, in amusical world inhabited by just the two of them. It wasperfect synchronicity achieved through her voice and hishands.

How those questioning notes from her voice found an46

immediate, gratifying response through his gifted fingerson the violin. He played intently, perspiration on his brow,his shirt clinging wetly to his back from the exertion. Thenotes flew off from his violin to seep through her very poresand emerged as more complicated note paterns, to whichhe had perfect responses every time. Her musicalchallenges were met with bigger challenges from his violin;it was a duel, her might against his. They lived in a capsule,Vani and Ravi, for the length of the concert. And every timethey completed a concert, she felt more alive, enveloped inexhilaration.

Together, with her voice and his violin, they shaped araga. It was a journey they undertook together, a journeyto discover a raga’s many contours, its secrets, its manycurves and its dimensions. Together they made a raga aliving, breathing, entity. The audiences responded with aspellbound silence that broke into thunderous applause atthe end.

Vani’s music involved hours and hours of practice.Three hours in the morning before school and again threehours after.

Once Ravi sent a note with his litle sister to tell Vani hewas ill; he would not be able to practice. Their telephoneline was not working, the litle girl said. For long momentsVani looked at the note and the penciled lines. The wordsscratched out on paper torn out of a school notebook wereaddressed to her, signed by him. After reading it a hundredtimes, she folded the note and placed it inside her musicbook. Every time she turned a page, she touched the pieceof paper and transferred it to the next page.

Her skin sensed his entrance into the room; it prickledand the hair on the back of her neck itched. She studied him

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while they practiced and noticed how Ravi had grown. Thesmall, thin, and intense fellow was now a tall, muscular,and of course, still intense young man. His hair curled overhis ears, his eyelashes were black and luxuriant.

With sideways glances, she watched his hands caressthe violin strings, watched those elegant, sensitive fingersproduce a sublime melody. Together, what wondrousmagic would they create?

He did not speak to her about anything but music, butshe felt their bond. How else would he know what she wasthinking even before she started her musical expansions?How else could he plumb the depths of her thoughts andbe so totally in sync with her music? How could he processthe music almost in parallel?

She hoped he looked forward to the practice sessions asmuch as she did. That he worked as hard for her, practicingand practicing, just as she did for him. That thoughts abouther consumed him just as thoughts about him consumedher.

To her, the passion between them was a palpable thing.She felt it in the air between them when they practiced. Vanitried to reach out and touch that passion every time sheflourished her left hand to accentuate her musicalrenditions.

The critics in the newspapers called their concerts“electrifying”.

Now she wondered, after over twenty years of marriageto Neel, had she developed a love for music because ofRavi, or had she developed this indefinable bond with himbecause of her love for music? Which came first, music orRavi?

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Vani mumbled to herself as she walked home. Every nowand then she picked up her pace and swung her arms asshe raised a fist. How could they perform without arehearsal? Her face was flushed as she let herself in.

An elderly aunt was visiting. Vani forced a smile. Herfather’s nosy aunt sized her up as she entered. She lookedat Vani, up and down and up again, as if to assess Vani’sheight.

“Good height! It’s time to start looking around,” Vani’sgreat aunt declared. She continued to stare at Vani as sheleaned on her cane. “Don’t wait too long, it’ll get harder theolder she gets.”

Her father nodded. “With your blessings, it willhappen.”

Vani’s heart sank into her toes. She knew what the auntmeant.

The phone rang then. Vani picked it up and said,“Hello?”

It was her music teacher.“Ravi apologized for not coming to rehearsal today. I

know you had to wait two whole hours. And he said hecannot play tomorrow. Should I get another violinist?”

“No. Just cancel the concert.” She felt like being rude. Itwas just a litle concert anyway.

She did not ask her teacher why Ravi could not play.Her parents responded appropriately to the aunt’s

statement. They retrieved her horoscope from the oldcupboard, where it was stored with the jewelry. Then on anauspicious Friday, after consultation with the family elders,her parents visited the family astrologer, Mr.

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Ramachandran.“He has arranged all the marriages in our family,” her

father said. “Sita’s, Vidya’s, and Mani’s, all your aunts,uncles, and cousins. What Ramachandran puts together,even the Gods don’t dare put asunder. He is the passportto a happy marriage in our family. The astrologer said if youare not married in three months, he will give up hisprofession. He is confident something will happen soon.”

No one asked Vani if she had someone in mind or ifthere was someone she would like to marry. Her parentstalked about saris, the trousseau, and the gifts they wouldneed to buy for everyone.

Vani stumbled at practices, forgeting words to songsshe could sing in her sleep. Ravi’s atendance continued tobe erratic. Her teacher glared at her as she missed rhythmiccues. But the teacher did not know that Ramachandran, thefamous astrologer and matchmaker, was passing herhoroscope around in search of appropriate, eligiblebachelors, she thought.

At night she dreamed she told Ravi. And in her dreamhe said, “How can they do that? I must speak to yourparents, before anything is fixed up.”

But Ravi’s demeanor was at practice was grim. He spentless and less time at rehearsals. The next time, she toldherself, the next time, she would tell him.

The next time he arrived fifteen minutes late. Ravilooked up at the clock every five minutes. Should she? Herheart flutered like that of a trapped bird’s. The teacher leftVani and Ravi for a minute and the room was enveloped insilence. Ravi blinked several times and flexed his fingers asif he were in pain.

He began to pack his violin case. 50

Can you not pick up the threads of my thoughts? Youdo that in music, don’t you?

“Not staying for tea?” Vani broke the silence.“I have to see a doctor,” he said with a grimace. She did

not ask him what for. “Good luck,” she said. Then he left. Vani’s father told her to get ready to meet her future

husband.“He is perfect. He fulfills all our requirements. You are

a lucky girl!” They told her his name was Neel.“It is short for S. Neelakantan,” her mother gushed. “He

is from the famous accountant Sundar’s family. And sohandsome, too. Six feet tall, brown eyes, aquiline nose . . .all the girls here would line up to grab him.”

Her father was more interested in his education. “Neel has just completed his Masters degree from the

University of Texas in the United States,” he told her.Their requirements were writen up as a checklist. Vani

was not consulted when the list was writen up. She stole alook at their check-list. “Education” was number one ontheir list, “Family” number two, and “Career” numberthree. She did not see “Music” on the list.

It didn’t appear, because there was no music at all inNeel’s family.

She kept her head down, like a demure bride would,when she met Neel. She did not look at him at all. He didnot register on her radar screen.

Ravi did not show up for practice that day or the nextday or the next.

Vani’s mind was occupied elsewhere. She went throughlife’s regular activities on one level and but felt and thought

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on another. She ate, drank, traveled, dressed and madeconversation. But another Vani lay beneath the surface, likethe lava beneath a volcano, stirring, churning and mixing.

“Where is Ravi?” she asked her teacher after a few days.“Why has he not been in for practices the last few days?”

“He said his hands hurt. The doctors don’t know why. Ihope it’s not arthritis, but he is young. He is going in for aspecialist’s consultation.”

Vani was silent for a minute. Then she said, “I am reallybusy too. I won’t be able to come in for a while.” Her teachernodded. After all, the girl was geting married.

The in-laws came to visit, all their relatives in tow,proud to show off Vani, their daughter-in-law to be. Thefamous singer.

“She has the voice of a nightingale,” her future mother-in-law announced with great conviction.

Vani was startled. She was sure the lady had neverheard her sing.

Her mother-in-law-to-be addressed her in a ratherproprietary tone, “Come dear, sing for us, please?”

Vani felt like a child being asked to recite her ‘Mary hada Litle Lamb’ or ‘Jack and Jill Went up the Hill’. It was as ifher parents were saying to her, “Come dear, remember howwell you sang Hickory Dickory Dock for Amma and Appayesterday, can you show this uncle and aunty how you cansing? Good girl, come on, let us hear you.”

Every pore in her body rebelled. For the first time in herlife, she didn’t feel like singing at all.

She scratched her head, frowned and tried toconcentrate, but she could not recall one song from her vastrepertoire.

Vani tried to set her pitch by humming the three notes,52

Sa, Pa, and Sa. She could not hum. Just three notes. Beadsof sweat broke out on her forehead as a cold panic sweptthrough her body. This had never happened to her before,a musician’s block.

The music within seemed to have dried up, like a riverwithout its sustaining rains.

All that emerged was a soft, hoarse croak. Everyonewatched and waited with puzzled expressions on theirfaces.

She put her hand to her throat, coughed a litle bit, andthen coughed some more. A cold numbness had descendedinto her throat, freezing it. “I’m sorry, my throat hurts,” shegasped, feigning a sore throat. With great concern theyasked her to gargle with some warm, salted water.

That night Vani wrapped up her sruti box it in a tornsari and put it away in a suitcase. Then, she found an oldschool bag and put all her music books into it. Next shewent through the house collecting all the concert picturesshe could find. Ravi was in every one of them.

She stared at the photographs. They were a team, Raviand she. Vani had never performed without Ravi. Nor hadhe performed without her. They fit together like a hand ina glove. They performed in perfect synchronicity. Could sheperform without him? Ravi was the engine that made hermusic flow. How could she sing without the engine? Whowould give her that energy, that impetus?

She could not sing any more. Vani put the pictures awaywith the books

The music in the concert hall swept over her in waves, as53

the raga reached a crescendo. She had worked with Ravi toproduce the same effect at one time. Vani looked away fromthe stage. The walls on either side of the auditorium wereadorned with painted figures in dance poses. Beautifulnymphs, in perfect postures, the bodies pliable yet strong.

Now Vani stole a furtive glance at Neel, her husband oftwo decades. He bought the tickets for this concert as asurprise. He had surprised her in many ways over the yearsof their marriage. He shared chores, shopped for groceriesand did the laundry sometimes. He was a good husband,she thought. Had she been a good wife?

Vani had her first conscious encounter with Neel onlyon the day of her marriage.

Hundreds of guests milled about the wedding hall. Thecheerful chater, the music playing in the background, theceremonies, and the grandeur of it all made the whole eventseem surreal to her. People congratulated her, told her howlucky she was. She smiled and adjusted her abundantjewelry.

She did not look at Neel. Her eyes searched for Ravi.Where was he? A soft hand pated her shoulder. Vani’s big,gold earrings dangled against her cheek as she turned.

“My! You look ravishing. What a beautiful bride youmake!”

Vani smiled. It was her teacher. Dare she ask? She must!“Where is Ravi?”

“Oh, he couldn’t come. His hands, you know. Thedoctors said it was RSI.”

“What? What is that?” Vani tried to keep her voice level,casual.

“Repetitive strain injury; something that afflicts thetendons of the hands. Happens to people that do repetitive

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movements.”“Oh!” Vani said as she looked down at her henna-

decorated hands. For the first time she wondered, if he wasgravely ill, if he would he ever play again. It bothered herthat he had not come to the wedding. Now she wouldn’tget to say goodbye.

Then the priest had put Vani’s hand in Neel’s, and hiscomfortably large hand enveloped her cold fingers andinfused them with an unexpected sense of warmth. Sheclung to his fingers, willing her hand to absorb some of thatwarmth, to rid her palm of the numbness that seemed tohave setled there.

Neel would never know how she was eternally gratefulto him for the manner in which he handled their weddingnight. The older ladies of her families walked her to thebridal suite with great ceremony. She was also accompaniedby whispered innuendos and a few giggles by the youngercousins. And then, they all left. She paced the room a fewtimes, started to remove some of her jewelry, and thendecided against it. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed,still dressed in her heavy silk sari and her weddingreception finery. Her heart seemed to be lodged in hermouth.

In about five minutes, the door opened and Neel camein. He then turned around and locked the door with adecisive latch. Dread and alarm threatened to overpowerher. It was his right now. She was his wife. His wife!

Vani watched as he unknoted his tie and unbutonedthe cuffs of his formal white shirt.

Something in her expression must have stopped him.Neel smiled wryly.

“It is too hot for a suit. I don’t know why people expect55

the bridegroom to wear a suit in this weather. Let’s get outof all this, shall we?” he had said indicating his clothes andhers, “And then I think we should talk, you and me. Why isit that we were always surrounded by people? Theywouldn’t leave us alone.”

He sat down in a cushioned chair. “Phew! What arelief.”

A bubble rose from the pit of her stomach. It came outas a nervous laugh.

Vani shed her old Indian persona when she arrived inAmerica and stepped into another skin as she stepped intoher first pair of blue jeans. The jeans felt different from thesaris she was accustomed to, not as soft, certainly not asfeminine, but definitely comfortable. They afforded her legsa hitherto unfamiliar radius of movement and made her feeldifferent somehow. And she wanted to be different now;she had embraced a whole new life.

Jeans and shirts were right for her, she decided. Afterthat first pair, she went back to the store and bought fivemore pairs. Soon she collected every brand of jeans that onecould buy. A pair of jeans became her standard uniform.

But it was not only the absurd collection of jeans, whichcontributed to the shedding of her old self. Once Vanibecame comfortable with the clothing, she cut her waist-length hair short enough to swing on her shoulders andexperienced the bounce of her hair. She freed her single,long braid with its colored rubber band at the end, andreleased her thick tresses from confinement. She thenbought her first pair of sneakers and began a jogging

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regimen. She took driving lessons and began to drive herown car - something she had never done before.

Still, all this was superficial; it wasn’t only the adoptionof western clothing and a fashionable hairstyle that wasinvolved in the shedding. She had shed a lot more, almostan entire life.

Neel’s restlessness communicated itself to Vani. Heshifted in his seat; he crossed and uncrossed his legs. Heput his arm across her shoulders now, a familiar, casualmove. He stretched his arm out at the same time.

His arm felt comforting as it sat on her shoulders. But to others it could imply intimacy, possession,

affection—a host of things. Usually, she wriggled out fromunder his arm or hissed at him, telling him to remove it. Shehad told him those gestures were meant to be private, notfor public display. But now, she let Neel’s arm setle on hershoulders as she reflected.

She had been afraid that she could not separate herself,as a musician, from Ravi. And she had not been able tomake that separation. Apparently, Ravi had. His RSI, theproblem with his fingers must have been taken care of.Would it be called carpal tunnel syndrome today?

Vani wondered if Ravi was married as she twisted herdiamond engagement ring around her finger. She narrowedher eyes as she tried to see his fingers. Why was sheinterested? She slapped her left hand with her right. Nomater the reason, he had decided to go his way, and shehad gone her way.

But he, Ravi, had pursued his passion, his violin.Despite the many obstacles he had faced.

She studied the figurines painted on the auditoriumwalls again. They seemed to leap with the music, reaching,

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reaching.

The music faded as the auditorium lights brightened. Therewas a sudden flurry of activity. A man went up to thepodium on the stage. He tested the microphone by tappingon it a couple of times.

“I am sorry to interrupt such a scintillatingperformance. The musicians will conclude after these briefannouncements. On behalf of Music Circle, I would like tothank tonight’s musical team for the concert . . .” He wenton.

“Let’s go,” Neel was saying in her ear. “I’m really tiredand it’s nine o’clock. I have to be at work tomorrow byseven. What do you say?”

He pointed across the row. On his side several peoplepicked up their bags as they made preparatory moves. Itwouldn’t be noticeable if they left with that crowd, heseemed to indicate.

Her head hurt. She wished she had a headache pill inher purse. She rose without protest and they slipped out.

In the car, Neel was quiet, lost in thought. They sharedthe silence, like only an old married couple can sharesilence, comfortably.

He interrupted her thoughts. “You did not enjoy theconcert today.” It was a statement.

She adjusted the pleats of her sari. “Oh, it was alright.Why?”

“But you didn’t like it very much, I think,” he persisted.“That is why I thought it would be alright for us to leave.”

“Why do you say that?” She asked again; she did not58

know how to answer him.“Was that violinist not good? You were looking at him.”

Oh God! That nod, that tiny litle nod, that infinitesimalacknowledgement of her presence had not gone unnoticed.

“He is a good player.” She was careful in her choice ofwords.

“Then what was wrong?”“Nothing, there was nothing wrong.” Her fingers

pressed down hard on the pleats of her sari, almost as if shewere ironing the fabric.

“Vani, come on, I know it was not good,” Neel saidpatiently. “I’ve seen you at concerts before. I see you nod. Ihear appreciative murmurs, mmms and aahhs, from you.And if the artists are not up to the mark, then too, I can tell.You shake your head in dismay or you say ‘AiyoApaswaram’. Your whole body responds to the music.Today, you were still. So, am I wrong?”

Vani was speechless. “You noticed?”“Yes, I watched your responses. You know I don’t know

much about the music anyway, your reactions are my cluesto the quality of the concert. Besides I like to watch yourreactions, what’s wrong with that?”

“You notice?” she said in wonder. “But, I never thought. . .”

“Never thought what? That I ever notice you?” heasked, “Come on!” She heard the amusement in his voice.He reached out to caress her cheek, rubbing his knucklesagainst the smoothness of her skin, before replacing hishand on the steering wheel.

Vani sat in her seat looking ahead at the road withoutanswering his question. An unexpected quiver ran throughher, a quiver that had not made an appearance for years.

59

The silence in the car was laden with sudden emotion. She turned sideways in her seat to look at Neel. She

reached out and ran her hand through his thinning hair.Then, as if making a determination, she lifted his right handoff the steering wheel and leaning forward, pressed her lipsto his warm palm.

“Hmm, nice! But what’s that for . . .” Neel asked,laughing.

“For noticing,” she answered. Later, she lay next to him in their king-sized bed, wide-

eyed, unable to sleep, as she listened to Neel’s loud snores.He slept the deep sleep of the tired while her thoughtswhirled; unwelcome visitors that intruded and preventedher from drifting off.

She tossed and turned for a while, waited for aninexplicable sense of dissatisfaction within her to subside.There was still something tied to her heart, weighing itdown. Unbidden, a fragment of something from her collegeEnglish literature class came to her:

For all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these: ‘Itmight have been!’

Vani rose from the bed. She walked to the family roomto turn on the television. Where were the old movies? Sheflipped channels until she came to the right one. RomanHoliday was on, a movie she had watched at least 50 times.

Her eye caught the red blinking light on the answeringmachine. She shrugged and went back to the movie. Therewas no need to pick up messages now, not at 11:30 P.M. Butthe red light blinked relentlessly, interrupted her movie.

She walked up to the machine and pressed the buton.“Good-evening!” The tone was formal. “This is Ravi

speaking.”60

She sat down and drew in a ragged breath.“You left before we finished the concert.”She pushed the mute buton on the television remote.“We are at the College Inn in Highland Park. Should be

here until tomorrow evening.”A pause as if he did not know how to sign off. Then,

abruptly, “Thank you.” A click sounded as he hung up.Audrey Hepburn had her hair cut and she looked

stunning. The soundless movie went on. After five minutes, Vani

padded through the bedroom to her closet. Her pink sarilay in a crumpled heap on the floor where she had droppedit. She picked it up and started folding. She would need toiron the Sari, she knew. Perhaps tomorrow. Now she staredat the shelves of folded jeans in front of her. A wall of jeans.She dropped her pink sari; again it lay in a crumpled heapon the floor. In a sudden frenzy she hunted behind thosejeans, pushing them on to the floor as she searched. Finally,her hand hit it.

It was there in the very back, where Vani had set itmany, many years ago, packed in its case and swaddled inan old sari to keep it from geting dusty. She took out hersruti box, the same one she had used so many years ago toset the correct pitch for music practice. Then she undid thewrapping, walked over to the living room and placed thebox on the living room floor. The old-fashioned pendulumclock in her living room struck twelve times. Vani noddedto herself. Nine in the morning would be a good time tobegin her music practice.

61

Getting Critical

“Ranga,” Editor’s bald, dome-shaped head popped into myoffice, “Can I talk to you for a second in my room?”

I threw a couple of files on the table and said throughclenched teeth, “You should know my first name by now.After all, you have only known me for twenty-five years.”Papers scatered, some skitered off the table. I bent downto pick them up from the floor before I said, “Editor, I needa couple of minutes.” I looked up and made a face. But hewas gone.

The editor of “The News,” my boss, always addressedme by my surname. Long ago I had decided that until hecalled me by my first name, I was going to call him ‘Editor’too.

I pushed all the files into a drawer, which I locked,before closing my door and walking over to Editor’s office.I wove my way through the noisy newspaper office. Phonesrang everywhere. A peon’s cart ratled with cups andsaucers, as he dispensed tea around the office. I heard therapid clicking of keyboards and the buzz of collectiveconversations.

I knocked on Editor’s door. He opened the door andlooked both ways in a furtive gesture before closing the

door behind me. Suddenly, the din was no more. “Well, surprise, surprise!” he began as he fingered his

luxuriant mustache. “It’s happening again.”“With those two, I presume?” “Those two indeed,” he winked at me. “I am afraid they

are puting us in a very difficult position this time.”I knew who the ‘they’ were and he knew I knew. But I

nodded and waited for him to continue.“This insane rivalry is geting out of hand! Both of them

now plan to perform on the same day and at the same time.” “And not at the same place?” I piped in. It was an

atempt at sarcasm.Still, he studied my expression to see if I was serious.

Then he said, “Of course not!” He smiled, his teeth barelyvisible through the denseness of his mustache. “I think youalready knew the answer to that one.”

“That means, I have to miss one concert. I cannot be intwo places at the same time. Which one do you want me toatend?” I tested him.

“No!” Editor sounded alarmed. “You cannot pick oneover the other. Our paper is commited to equal coverage.”

I exhaled, praying for patience. “I know, I know. So,how do you propose we handle this?”

“We have to do both.” “You are beginning to sound like a parrot. Tell me what

to do!” He didn’t answer, but sat back in his chair and looked

up at the ancient fan perched high on the ceiling.I shook my head at him. “How adroitly you toss the

problematic ball into my court. This is your job. You figureout how I should do it!”

He decided to placate me. “Your column has been63