The Morning Melody

 The dark December night was unusually cold. A gentle breeze caressed her and Dharini drew the saree tight over her shoulders. Invisible hands had scattered quite a few diamonds in the sky and a few of them winked at her. From this seventh floor of the building she could see the runway lights of the Santa Cruz Airport, Bombay, in the distance……a rangoli of precious stones - diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and topaz. The huge planes were swooping down, like large birds of prey, blinking their red and green eyes. Some took off and vanished like a shooting - star in the dark sky. Right across her balcony, the lights in the hostel- rooms of SNDT college blinked with a dull lustre.

 It started drizzling. Strange, she thought, at this time of the year. She could hear an old Talat Mehmood melody floating like mist from the next building… . ‘ Geeth naazukh hai mera seese se ye toote na kahi….’

 

Her eyes brimmed with tears. She stepped inside, opened the showcase and taking out that silver statue, held it close to her heart. Her thoughts flew back. It was a month since that memorable day…

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It was eleven in the morning. She was ironing the clothes. From the flat next door – Mrs. Malhotra’s kitchen – the strains of a Punjabi song reached her. She had heard the very same song, sung by Mrs. Chopra who was staying on the floor above. Mrs Chopra had a lovely voice and sang beautifully. But now…the same song was being hammered by Mrs. Malhotra and in its futile attempt to leave her vocal cords and get released, the song was running helter-skelter ! Dharini felt suffocated. She switched off the iron and switched on the tape recorder. The Desh Rag Thillana ..rendered by Lalgudi Jayaraman filled the room and her heart. The strings of his violin plucked at her heartstrings. The melody flowed down her cheeks. Like the mild fragrance of incense, the song enveloped her and she lost herself in a deep divine abyss.

 

The calling bell jerked her back to her senses.

It was Mrs. Malhotra.

 

“Dharini, can you spare a couple of tomatoes? Sanjay is bringing a friend of his for lunch…that  Madarasi boy Cheenu. I need to make Palak Paneer. That kid loves the stuff.”

 

Dharini took out three tomatoes from the fridge and asked her,

“Were you singing a little while ago?”

 

“Oh! You could hear, is it? I studied Sasthriya Sangeet for four years and that too after marriage!! My mother in law was keen that I learned music. In fact, everyone in my husband’s family knows music in some form or the other. I have no taste for music. At times, when I am in a very good mood, I start singing!! Funny, isn’t it?”  She went away.

 

Yes, “Funny”, Dharini told herself. Those who have no voice nor taste for music are being forced to sing. And those with a passion for music…well, fate silences them !!

Mrs. Malhotra had gone away, evoking in her a strange feeling.

 She spoke to herself - softly. “Yes. I want to sing. Not yesterday. Not today…but  for eons…this craving must have soaked me….”

There was never a music competition without her taking part in it in her school and college days. Devotional songs, Classical Music, film songs in Hindi, English, Telugu, Malayalam or Tamil…she would emerge a sure winner. In fact, she was known as the nightingale of her school.

Music has no language. You cannot bind music with academic or technical fetters. You need not understand any music. You have to just feel, yes, experience. Oh! That said everything.

She recalled those seven years in Madras, when the Master came home and taught her to play the Veena. Accompanied by her mother, she would attend even the Demo sessions in the Sabhas during the December Concert Season. She would always attend the Rama Navami Concerts with her mother and cousins in Venus Colony, those days. She recalled that April night when Chitti Babu had played the Magudi tune on the Veena , till almost towards midnight thrilling every nerve in her.

All her music ended with her academics. Playing her Veena became irregular after marriage and at one point just stopped. When the kids started taking the first few steps, spoke the first few words, the melody in her surged like waves and she would sing softly to herself. In the misty, half-lit kitchen early in the morning, the desire to do an Aalap would spring in her heart. As she pulled the rope and churned the buttermilk she would silently murmur… “soga suga mruthanga thaalamu..” along with the movement of her arms. When the iron moved rhythmically over the shirts and dresses she would sing “Seethamma maayamma..” When her eyes drank in the beauty of the “Valley of Flowers” in the National Geographic magazine, she would transport herself to the slopes of the mighty snow-capped Himalayas and sing the Raga Poorvikalyani…with the tall Devadaru trees appreciating her music and gently shaking their heads.

 

Keerthivasan’s (her husband) paternal aunt who brought him up ever since he had lost his parents in an accident when he was a small kid, had no ear for music. In fact, she hated music in any form. Kalyani – that was her name – lacked all the sweetness and nuances of the raga Kalyani!

Dharini still remembers the day she received an earful….

She was kneading the atta for making rotis and was singing a Dikshithar Krithi in the Raga Dharmavathy. Her daughter was seated near her, admiring her song when Kalyani barged into the kitchen….like a small storm.

“What is this? Is this a *$@^*’s house? All this song and…”

 

Dharini stopped singing that day. A stubborn decision never to sing again was born in her heart. . She never opened her mouth after that – to sing. Sigh! It is four years since Kalyani passed away.

And now- this new life in the city of Bombay.

She had felt like a free bird…out of the cage…flitting in the sky, singing and dancing.

Oh a few more years perhaps. Let me sing. I should sing. She took out her Song book in which she had copied the Hindi, Malayalam and Tamil Film songs of the fifties and sixties. She bought new cassettes. She started listening to Ghazals. She sang throughout the day.

One day as she was reading the Times of India, a particular announcement captured her attention. It was for the National Music Competition conducted by the Sanjeev Kumar Memorial Theatre. This was the third year in succession that the competition was being conducted.

A wave of eagerness and anticipation surged through her. She recalled the days she had taken part in the music competitions years ago. She got into an Auto and sped towards Andheri where the Office of this association was.

The Manager was one Kishore Sahini. It was a Music School and he was one of the teachers there. He was the one in charge of this competition too.

“Yes Ma’am?”

 “I saw your advertisement in the Times. I just want to know the procedure for taking part.”

“Oh yes,” he took an application form from the table and extended it towards her.

 “Just fill this up and you should let us know the song you are going to sing, one week ahead. The competition will be with a full-fledged orchestra.”

She paid an entrance fee of sixty rupees and went back home clutching the form to her heart.

After so many years, at THIS AGE, a freak of a wish like this?

There is no age for music. There is no age for the heart. I am still just twenty-one…she told herself.

Fantasies overtook her. Imagination ran wild. So was her practice. Keerthivasan was surprised but very happy at her happiness and enthusiasm. Exactly twenty-one days later…

The venue was the Homeopathy College Auditorium. There were a hundred and sixty contestants. Most of them were college students. A few were just a little bit older. She was the only one above forty…in the evening of her life. In the first row sat the judges….Music Director Khayyam; Meher Unnisa Begum of the Lucknow Gharana; Mr.Bharath Kumar, Dean of the Ahmedabad College of

Music and the Director of Ninth Channel Music Recording Studio.

She was a little bit apprehensive. Was it not ages since she had sung? But Keerthivasan proved to be a great source of encouragement.

She had selected a song from the movie Lekin, which was popular at that time. A ghazal like a melody with a classical tune…sung by the illustrious Lata for the actress Dimple Kapadia.

She looked at the audience; the auditorium was packed. She closed her eyes and started singing, mike in her hand. The synthesizer moaned the plaintive opening notes.

 The heroine is a spirit. She is wandering in loneliness, yearning and searching for her beloved. She has been doing this for years…the never-ending search. Dharini could empathize with her. The same longing to let loose the torrent of melody from her heart . A yearning that had stayed as a pool in the deep recesses of her heart. Swaras locked in for years awaiting release. A sense of fullness enveloped her and she sang, the soulful music emerging like waves from a vibrant stream…

 There is neither a beginning nor an end for music. It is ever-present in this vast universe in the form of unheard melodies. One can relate to it when one has love, compassion and tenderness. It needs the sublime to be able to identify it. One has to keep the heart tuned, to absorb its nuances. This is the form of music.

When she was declared the winner she was overwhelmed. She told herself…I am the morning Melody…Bhoopaalam…in the evening of my life.

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She looked at the statue…. an image of Goddess Saraswathy with the Veena in her hand. She would cherish it for life. She placed it back in the show-case.

 She wanted to hug the whole world. She felt as if every nerve in her was bursting with love. As she closed the kitchen window, she heard Mrs. Malhotra singing Gurman Singh’s Bangra. She smiled. Somehow, this time it did sound sweet to her ears.

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This is my translation of a short story written by me and published in a special issue of the magazine Kalki dedicated to Music, in the month of December 1994