August’24 Issue: Short Stories and Fiction

MUSINGS OF A RAIN DRUM by Ishika Chakraborty

A Study in Lucid Dreaming

The room smells like antiseptic. These are not your clothes, this is not your body. Something to consider—if a soul could be transposed like a piece of music, would it feel like this? An upshift by six notes, where all the senses remain intact but your recollections are perforated.

“You’re being discharged,” the nurse had said, “given your vitals are stable, and your family is equipped to support you through the rest of your recovery.”

You like your nurse. She’s warm, motherly, and more familiar than the three shadows lurking in the corner, faces taut and twisted like an expressionist painting. Someone—perhaps one of the other nurses, or the temporary physical therapist—referred to them as your family. You wouldn’t know.

“We’re taking you home,” one of the shadows utters, clasping your hand tightly. Her palm is sweaty. “You’re going to be alright. The memories—” Here, she makes a face, a bit unsure, a bit pained. “Well. The doctors said it would take some time. There’s not much we can do.”

“What if it’s permanent?” one of the other shadows wonders. He’s smaller, and has to tiptoe a little to look at you properly. The bed is high. He receives a pinch to the ear at his misplaced words, and then the shadows are leaving, a little teary-eyed.

You’re not sad to see them go. It’s confusing enough wrapping your head around the things the nurses and doctors say. Retrograde amnesia is thrown around a few times, often in liaison with traumatic brain injury. Blessedly, your critical thinking skills have remained intact, so you piece together a story—likely a car accident, a bad injury to the head, emergency vehicles, and then a month spent in the ICU slipping in and out of consciousness.

Soft jazz plays in the background. “You can turn it up, I don’t mind,” you hear yourself remark, but the nurse only smiles at you reluctantly and ignores your request. Is it worth straining your ears? You’d rather sleep, but your mouth is dry and you feel like an imposter.

When you think back you end up with awful headaches. The doctor assures you it’s perfectly normal. It’s also perfectly a pain in the ass. You’re moderately confident in your speech capabilities and motor skills, and have perhaps even retained some semblance of worldly knowledge. Otherwise? You’re a blank slate. You could rebuild from scratch, if you really wanted, and isn’t that a thought? Nothing tangible to hold you to the life you once breathed.

You choose not to speak or move very much. Sometimes it hurts, but mostly it’s pointless. The painkillers leave you dazed and soft, like cotton candy—one lick away from melting. In between, there are moments of clarity, and you feel sharp as a knife. Can the knife feel the press of the skin it cuts into, or does it exist outside of its actions?

Starkly aware of your position in the world around you, you wonder. You exist in this body, in this brain, in this timeline, but more like a figment of your imagination. A dreamer walking. You are real, theoretically—but are you tied to this soul? Is the soul tied to this body and its memory?

The Universal Patchwork: Volume II

Nothing is the same, yet everything is the same. You believe—not strongly, not hesitantly—that every life consists of phases. Perhaps the phases are fluid, an uninterrupted rivulet across childhood to adolescence, and later to adulthood. Seldom do we see a break in the continuum, a conclusion of all preceding events. You’re an exception.

Picture this: a tapestry woven from threads the color of stars and smoke, crashing waves and flickering flames. Everyone whose lives you touch join this glimmering brocade of thoughts and whispers and words, forever immortal in the archives of the universe. The stories intertwine, and at the center is yours—the life and personality you have constructed, carefully, stable yet precarious.

Now imagine how the tapestry unravels with a single careless tug. The central point—you—has come undone. It ceases to exist in the way the stories around it remember it to. Do you, the source of this ruination, complain? Of course not. The tapestry will weave itself back together without your contribution. You sit on the outskirts, like an outlier in an otherwise unified data set.

Such is the feeling you’re left with now. Artfully dubbed the visionary, you ignore reality and stolidly chew at your toast, stifling the words on your tongue. Three figures flit about, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” you inquire blandly.

They make eye contact with you. Your parents, and your younger brother. Emotional bonds should not be so easily severed. Your brother’s eyes are glassy. 

“No.” A grimacing smile. “This is all…very new for us. It’s been a very stressful few months.”

You return to the comfort of your toast. The lack of response doesn’t seem to disturb him (your father, that is). You pity him, but in an arbitrary, disconnected way, like how one might pity an unfamiliar coworker facing the loss of a family member—sympathetic, yet disengaged.

Midday light filters into the kitchen. The house is still foreign in the way it resembles a distant but well-meaning relative. Privately, your family might have hoped that a familiar background might spark remembrance; the sting of disappointment at your failure makes a home for itself in the pit of your ribcage.

The chair beside yours screeches as it is drawn out. A grubby hand makes itself known in the periphery of your vision. You stare at it. It stares back.

“I learned a new song. Do you want to listen?” The plastic keyboard is scuffed along the edges, but otherwise perfectly functional. You feel a surge of something strong fill your lungs when you meet your brother’s gaze. How much has he internalized?

“I’d love to.”

Pudgy fingers press at the tiny keys, diligent in their movements, more thought put behind each action than you have put behind any attempt to remember your past. Another surge of emotion in your lungs—shame. The tinny music seeps into each rotten, neglected corner of your mind.

The fingers pause, and the two of you sit quietly. You don’t recognize the song, with its sweet melody and uneven rhythm. The salt of your mouth begins to taste like frustration. Your skin prickles. Soon, you want to promise yourself. Soon, it will come to you.

“Was it good?” he asks suddenly.

“Very good.” You drag yourself from quiet remorse and reach out to gently pet the hair from his face. “How long have you been working on it?”

His face crumples.

Here is another thing you ought to have remembered.

Stagnation Under a Strobe Light

You haven’t made much progress. Sometimes, quiet sniffles and muffled sobs reach your ears under the cover of night. They tighten your throat and squeeze your stomach like a vice, and the itch of your mind feels unbearable. Escape has never sounded sweeter.

Your family seldom bothers you. On the brink of collapse, you hover at the front porch and watch the blooming daisies. An engine purrs, and a dusty, battered car pulls up. Its owner is not familiar, but that is unsurprising.

She makes no move to approach you upon exiting the vehicle. One hand rests on the closed car door, the other clutches a red bag. Her face shines like a sunflower.

“Are you going to let me in?” she presses after several silent seconds.

You gesture aimlessly at the front door, left ajar. Who is to stop her? Certainly not you. She climbs the porch steps and breezes past you, insouciant to a fault. The hand clutching at her bag is white at the knuckles.

Upon entry, the stranger makes herself scarce, perhaps in search of your parents. A glance in the microwave door reveals a tepid image—lips bitten raw and eyes filled with apathy. Who will fix this for you? You are the possessor of your own soul, yet your mind works in facetious ways, a self-steering ship on dead waters. There is no savior in sight. Oceans of blank canvases await you.

The girl has reappeared, this time in the muted light of your bedroom, sat primly on recently ironed sheets. The bag rests at her feet, and her eyes are trained on the wall opposite her. In her lap lies a violin.

“Why aren’t you speaking?”

“I haven’t thought of anything to say.”

Her brow creases wearily. If her face is a sunflower, then her hands are the roots—reaching, twisted, endlessly searching. “You still don’t remember anything?”

You resist the urge to defend yourself. “No.”

“I read somewhere that exposing an amnesiac to things they enjoyed may aid in recollection.” Her shoulders lift, somewhere between a shrug and a slouch. “But I’m no neurologist.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your gaze snags on the violin once more. “Who is there to describe my past to me?”

“Your family.” Her gaze is sharp. “You know, if you took the time out of your day to speak to them, in more than a few words, it might do you some good.”

“I’ve tried. It’s not pleasant. It hurts them more than it helps me.”

Her nails tap at the sides of the violin. “This is a miserable way of living your life. Aren’t you tired?”

You take a step farther into the room and gesture at the violin, disregarding her question. “Is that yours?”

“It’s yours, actually. But you never play it.”

Sudden fear grips you. How many experiences have you had, how many people have you met, how many chapters of your lifetime have been taken for you? Who are you? No one can tell you that, for every statement would be a single facet, no more an accurate representation of you than a single page is of a book.

“Don’t make that face,” she says. “You quit when you were ten. You haven’t lost anything essential.”

“Every memory is essential.”

She makes a face and picks up the violin. Her fingers grip the bow lovingly. “The violin is not your life. There are more important things to remember.”

The first note is clear as birdsong at dawn. Her nose scrunches in concentration with each stroke of the bow, hair falling across her forehead. The joints in your fingers twinge in consternation—the piece feels like an old friend, one whose name sits somewhere at the back of your throat, just out of reach.

It ends on a tender chord, sweet beyond reason, resting heavy in the hollows or your collarbones and the dip of your neck. Your pulse thrums a beat several clicks too fast, rapid like the wings of a hummingbird, stretching like a balloon filled rapidly.

Her lashes flutter as her eyes drift to focus on the floor. Sweat has accumulated between each of your fingers. Your voice is two shades too loud in the placid air when you speak. “That was lovely.”

“Thank you.” Without meeting your gaze, she smiles—something small and wan, meant for secret rooms and warm afternoons. “You know—you’re a musician too.”

Nothing like that, you want to say. “Am I?” you ask instead. The word does not lend itself to the tangled mesh that is your past—does not quite fit.

“A singer.”

Like the last puzzle piece, it fits.

Listen to the Rain Drum (Your Final Destination)

In the living room next to the TV is a bookshelf. Few things on that shelf can be classified as books, other than the miscellaneous selection of cookbooks and two volumes on avian photography. The top shelf boasts a careful lineup of glass animals. The one you peruse now holds CDs, nearly forty, neatly tucked against each other.

Your brother seeks you out more frequently nowadays. He has an ear for music—it fills you with pride and an untoward urge to purchase an upright piano. Even a proper electric keyboard would do.

Yesterday, you found a stained binder shoved under several piles of paper in your room. Something prevents you from consulting its contents. It isn’t necessary, either way, you know it’s full of sheet music and lyrics. Misguided fear holds your hand and beckons you into its embrace.

Outside, it has begun to rain. Not quite a drizzle, far from a downpour. The trees glisten green, and the scent of petrichor floats through the window you cracked open earlier. It’s cold. You don’t feel like shutting it.

You find the CD you were looking for and nestle it into the CD player. It slides shut with a soft buzz and begins to play. Melancholic jazz sifts through the air, reminiscent of bygone hospital days. Soothing and spiky all in one.

You scratch at the skin of your forearm. More words sit in the back of your throat. They have begun to weigh you down, invisible burdens, too indecisive to let go. What is it that holds you back? Uncertainty paints a wavering picture of words falling to the ground like rocks, words hovering before your face like butterflies.

Must you be a singer only because you have been one? But no, that isn’t right. It isn’t really a choice at all. The rain drum plays at the mercy of the rain. Its purpose has been defined from the beginning, irreversible. Are you a singer only because the rain told you so, or are you a singer simply because there is nothing more?

 She is a violinist, and you are a singer—it is written in your bones like old poetry. The music exists whether you wish it to or not.

The words leave your throat—honeyed, melodic, in tandem with the crooning voice of the singer on the CD. Knelt before the rain-speckled window and worn CD player, you remember.

The Sangeet Sammelan by Reenu Talwar

– I want to learn singing, she told her surprised parents.

They blinked, momentarily unable to comprehend what she was asking for.

– Singing? they repeated, totally unprepared for the situation.

Both of them had seen hard times in refugee families. They were trying to make a new life for themselves and a clean break from the past. They wanted the best for their child, they secretly wished for her to become a doctor one day. ‘Singing’ hadn’t figured in their dreams for the future.

– But who will teach you? Where can you learn?

– From the teacher who teaches singing at my school. She lives in the next lane, that red house with hibiscus flowers, you know? I saw her go into that house when I was cycling around with Rajni.

They couldn’t say no to her, although the idea had thrown them a little.

That evening she dragged her still-unsure mother to the teacher’s house. A petite lady wearing a saree opened the door. She was surprised, and unsure when she heard the request. Of course, she taught a few select students, mostly children of professors, who were well-versed in Hindustani classical music and wanted their kids to learn.

But here was someone who had no clue, she thought somewhat derisively. Although, it wouldn’t hurt to have one more fee coming in every month.

They agreed upon a fee and each afternoon at four, she was at her ‘singing’ teacher’s house, whom the other girls called ‘Guru ji’, she soon found out.

A whole new world opened up its delicate tendrils for her. She discovered that learning to sing wasn’t just a whim, her voice was indeed doing her bidding, going up and down the ‘saptak’ with ease. And her voice sounded good. In fact, better than most of the other students. Only Alpana’s voice was better than hers, but then Alpana was not serious at all about learning music. She wouldn’t write down the notations neatly and she wouldn’t practice at home. It was unfair that she still managed to pull off a decent rendition when Guru ji asked her to repeat what had been taught in the last class.

Weeks and months passed by. Whether they were burning afternoons of June, water-filled sloshy streets of August or a biting cold, wind-blowing December, she would be at the red house, in time, each day. She couldn’t understand why, but learning music had made her feel bigger and taller, spread out and vast. It would take her somewhere far away, beyond all that which restricted her and it felt as if she could almost touch something that was tantalisingly out of reach.

She had always been a quiet child. Now she would keep humming and singing the ragas she learnt. Their quiet home had now begun to hum. The parents smiled at each other, content to see her happy.

– I want a harmonium. I need it to do my ‘riyaaz’.

– But that is too expensive…

She didn’t let her mother finish the sentence.

– Buy me a harmonium! She stamped her foot.

The parents were disturbed. The mother asked around and came up with the idea of borrowing the harmonium of the neighbourhood temple’s kirtan group twice a week.

The idea was rejected.

– I want my own harmonium! My own!

The man in the music instrument shop suggested a second-hand harmonium in good condition.

It was duly bought, albeit with misgivings in the hearts of the parents. They thought it was too much of an investment for a hobby.

Meanwhile, some of the bandishes she learnt were devotional and appealed to her father. After a long day of hard work, when he sat down for his evening prayer, in his dazzling white kurta-pyjama, smelling of Lifebuoy soap, he would often ask her to sing ‘Jaun tore charan kamal par vaari’ or ‘Are mann samajh-samajh pag dhariye’. She would promptly bring the harmonium to the diwan in the verandah and begin. A few days later, father and daughter started singing those bandishes together.

Time passed in its bitter-sweet vilambit laya. She loved it when all the girls sang together in the class, voices in unison, smiling when they caught each others’ eyes. At other times, they were so wrapped up in themselves and their shared lives that they unknowingly excluded her. Perhaps they were unconsciously imitating their parents, who were all acquainted with each other and comfortable in their world. They would often stand near the cars and chat when they came to pick up and drop off the girls. The girls would keep playing near the hibiscus bushes till the parents were ready to leave. The parents hardly ever talked to her, maybe they didn’t even notice her. It was as if she wasn’t there. Sometimes, the girls ignored her too. And even the teacher. She would be there, learning, rendering beautifully but it was as if she wasn’t there. ‘Guru ji’ never lavished any praise on her. The closest she would come to appreciation was a short ‘hmm’ after she had rendered perfectly an alaap or a taan.

She felt lost and abandoned. She practised so hard every day and waited in vain for appreciation that never came about. On the days she was deeply disappointed and when even the other students hadn’t paid much attention to her, she would stop near an Ashoka tree on her way back. She would pick up its leaves off the road and write on them with her pencil. The faint words would be fervent.

– If you find this, please be my friend!

Some days a breeze would tear the leaf message from her hand and carry it away. It made her heart soar with hope. Maybe someone will read it, they will find her and become her friend. On other days, the leaf would fall onto the dusty road. Her heart would weigh down like a dark thundercloud.

But there were consolations. Her father would be back home with two new books from the library. And, she would bring out the harmonium and they would sing together, his voice making up for a lack of training with an abundance of faith.

She had noticed that, for the past week or so, Nandita had already reached when she arrived at Guru ji’s place. She would already be practising and it was a different raga from the one they were learning. She also saw that Aplana’s mother and Guru ji were whispering with each other and then talking to Alpana, asking her to do something which she dismissed in her casual way. It was Gauri who told her that there was to be a sangeet sammelan where students would perform and it would encourage them to learn better and make them confident. Guru ji’s old mother-in-law was standing nearby, listening to their conversation. She told her, – You have been learning for so long now, more than two years. And you sing so well. Go ask your Guru ji to enter your name for the sammelan too!

She felt both joy and fear as she waited, until everyone had left, to talk to Guruji. She was scared to perform in front of an audience. Yet she also had the desire to show how well she could sing. Guru ji saw her and said – What are you still doing here? Everyone has left. Go home now. Go!

She said – Guruji, I want to participate in the sangeet sammelan too.

– Arre, Nandita is older and has been learning for many years. You are only ten!

– But Guruji, I sing much better than her! she protested.

– Are you the Guru ji? Do you know better than me? Now go home!

She almost ran home, flung herself down on the bed and burst into tears. Her parents couldn’t understand what had happened. They asked questions, trying to find out whether she had got hurt, whether she was feeling unwell. They tried to hug and comfort her but she pushed them away, crying all the while. Much later, she told them, still sobbing, that she wanted to participate in the sangeet sammelan and that Guruji was not agreeing. That she wouldn’t even have come to know, had Gauri not told her. That Nandita had been practising for many days now.

Her mother was angry that her child was being denied the opportunity. She pulled her up, wiped her tears and said,

– I am going to talk to your Guru ji right now! Come!

They walked fast, eyes fixed inwards, on the thoughts coming and going in their minds. They reached Guru ji’s door and rang the bell. The mother-in-law opened the door and gave them a sweet smile.

– Please sit, I will tell Aruna you are here, she said in her heavily accented Hindi.

Guru ji was surprised to see them. But she was shrewd enough to understand the reason for their visit. She began in self-defence,

– I have been working so hard with your daughter.

Oh really? she thought to herself. As if she was a tough nut Guru ji had to crack. Her mother’s anger had emboldened her to think like that.

Her mother’s voice had a quiet rage.

– Then why didn’t you choose her to perform in the sangeet sammelan? She has been learning for more than two years now. She practises every day. She has a lovely voice. You can train her. She can come for two hours every day. I am willing to pay an extra fee.

– I have chosen Nandita because she started learning almost a year before her.

– That doesn’t mean my daughter is not as good as her. She has been practising so sincerely. You prepare her for the sammelan. Let her work hard. It will be a good experience for her. It will make her confident.

Before Guru ji could reply, her mother-in-law, who had been standing near the door, listening to their conversation, said,

– Aruna, this child has a better voice than Nandita and she learns fas-

– Why are you butting in? Go inside!

Guru ji was always rude to her mother-in-law, but not in front of visitors. Today she felt cornered and forgot to keep up the pretence.

– All right, she said with a resigned sigh. I will try to prepare her.

She had a spring in her step as she walked back with her mummy. And her mother was just happy to see her skipping along on the road.

The ‘taiyaari’ began. The teacher had chosen raga Tilak Kamod. And from that moment, the bada khyaal ‘Khewatiya paar lagao…’, began playing in her mind, in her voice and even in her dreams and she felt her pulse beating in ektaal. She spent two hours at Guru ji’s place and threw herself into her riyaaz, but Guru ji’s ego was badly hurt by the decision forced upon her by the child’s mother. She left no opportunity to criticise her. She was scolded for even the tiniest mistakes.

Only two weeks were left for the sammelan. The masterji who played the tabla, was there each day for the practice. Initially, she used to miss the ‘sam’ many times and Guru ji would be livid, eyes popping out in anger, the maroon bindi between her brows almost falling off with the effort. But master ji would encourage her quietly, his eyes twinkling with reassurance and appreciation.

But Guru ji became obsessed with even the tiniest mistakes she occasionally made. One evening, she told her father about it. In his calm manner, he tried to make her understand that her Guru ji wanted the best for her. She wanted her students to make no mistakes. It was his nature to see the best in everyone.

The child wasn’t convinced. Guru ji’s anger seemed personal to her. She never shouted at Nandita. She praised her so often. But there wasn’t much time to entertain these thoughts. The day of the sammelan was approaching fast. And she had to focus on her riyaaz.

It was Basant Panchami. The day of the sammelan. So many classical music teachers all over town had prepared their students for the sammelan. Their prestige was at stake. She was wearing a yellow salwar-kameez, with the dupatta over one shoulder, tied at the waist. Her mother had got it stitched from one of her sarees. She went to Guru ji’s house. Nandita’s parents were taking them to the venue of the concert, in their car. Her parents would come later. They had to reach early and practice with the sarangi, which would be playing as an accompaniment.

It was her turn to practice and Khan sahab, the sarangi player asked Guru ji about her taiyaari and Guru ji grimaced. For a minute, she was stunned. That feeling of being alone, of no one getting her, reverberated in her mind. She took a deep breath and drew from the reserves of stubbornness she had inside her.

She began singing. Khan sahab’s face mirrored his surprise. He glanced at Guru ji, as if to ask why she had grimaced earlier. The child was singing well. Just to rile Guru ji, or maybe just to prove her right in front of Khan sahab, she wobbled one or two notes, and sang them in a sequence, not as per the raag.

As if on cue, Guru ji met Khan sahab’s eye and grimaced. He looked worried and grimaced back. She felt hysterical laughter bubbling inside her.

The sammelan began. Her turn would come after eight children had sung. The hall was full of doting parents and grandparents. She could hear the singing and applause from where she sat, waiting in the wings. Her name was announced. She got up with a lurch and bent to touch Guru ji’s feet to get her blessings. Guru ji didn’t let her bend all the way, almost pushing her backwards saying,

Go! Go!

It hurt. She thought of how Nandita had touched Guru ji’s feet and Guru ji had blessed her and hugged her while Nandita’s parents looked on approvingly, indulgently.

She walked onto the stage. The audience clapped. She felt physically sick with fear. Her parents were sitting somewhere down there, clapping for her, but she did not dare to look at the audience. She sat down, adjusted her posture and picked up her already-tuned tanpura.

Her fingers began strumming. Her eyes were fixed inwardly on her Guru ji’s grimace. She held on to that image. She straightened her spine and began the alaap. 

Her voice soared and she with it. She felt as if she had left the auditorium, the audience, and the stage far behind. As if she was floating in the sky clinging to her tanpura. She wasn’t trying to catch Master ji’s eye for reassurance, nor trying to avoid looking at the audience. And Guru ji’s grimace couldn’t be further from her mind. She was filled with wonder as her voice ascended and descended, capturing the notes and letting them go, then tying them into long strings of alaaps and loops of taans.

And soon enough, she sang the first line of the chhota khayal the last time, letting it taper off on an ascending note. The applause brought her back with a jolt. Master ji was thumping her back and saying – Shabash! Well done! Her parents were waiting near the stairs that came down from the stage. Her mother enveloped her in a tight hug as her father looked on, beaming. This was beyond their imagination. Their faces looked incredulous. Guru ji was sitting in the front row. People were congratulating her. The three of them walked towards her. Her parents began to thank Guru ji profusely, overwhelmed. Guru ji patted her lightly and said,

— Yes yes, it went okay.

She was smiling, but it looked more like a grimace.

Pages: 1 2 3 4