by Shruthi Rao
It can’t be very long now.
The inner room is still and silent. The drapes are drawn. We sit around the ancient teakwood bed, with Thatha’s still figure on it. We are waiting.
I can hear the constant rustle of respectful whispers outside, in the hall and in the garden. Word has spread, and people have already started gathering outside the house.
For not only is he my grandfather, but also the most learned composer that this generation has seen. He has enjoyed the patronage of the royal family, and has earned the respect of the greatest maestros of the day, who take it as a challenge to perform his work to perfection. His compositions are sometimes childlike in their simplicity, and at others, so profound that one needs years of practice to master them. But they are always, always beautiful.
Thatha’s wrinkled face is placid. There is not the slightest flutter in his eyelids. I can’t even discern the rise and fall of his stomach. Could it be that he is already . . .
“Krishna,” he murmurs, and I jump.
“Yes, Thatha.”
“Tamboori,” he says, and I understand.
I bring his favourite tamboori from its nook, and sit cross-legged on a mat next to his bed. With reverence, I place the tamboori in front of me, letting its heavy base sink gently to the ground. I run my fingers over the smooth, burnished brown wood and the intricate ivory inlay patterns on the instrument. Very lightly, I pluck the strings on its long neck. The instrument is slightly out of tune. I take my time turning the pegs, loosening and tightening the strings, adjusting the sound to the tiniest microtone. Then I work on the silk thread on the ivory bridge of the instrument, moving it millimeter by millimeter, until I attain a rich, reverberant sound.
Satisfied, I start plucking the strings gently. My middle finger plucks the first string, and my index finger, the other three. One by one, continuously. As the soft, rich notes fill the room, Thatha relaxes imperceptibly, and the tiniest of smiles plays on his lips.
My fingers move of their own accord. Pa-sa-sa-sa. Pa-sa-sa-sa. The resonant notes pour forth like waves, flow into one another, bounce off the walls and fill every corner of the room, until the walls, the ceiling, and everything else that fills the room dissolve, and it seems like nothing exists except the meditative notes of the tamboori.
I continue playing for I know not how long. A sense of contentment fills me and drives out all other emotions. What a way to go — drifting away on the sweetest sound in the world!
Will I also be fortunate enough to have someone play the tamboori for me in my last moments?
Thatha is still motionless. His kind, pleasant face is peaceful.
It can’t be too long now.
[This story was first published as “Letting Go” in Dec 2010 in Joyful! (http://joyfulonline.net) – the magazine has now closed down]Picture credit: Martin Spaink
A very nicely written philosophical and spiritual end of the doyen of music!
As a musician I understand what it is to be soulfully immersed in the music till the end stage.
Let the mortal remains of the musician be one with the star and continue to sparkle!