Naukadubi: The Boatwreck

Chapter 10

The rendezvous continued...
One morning, Ramesh discovered a blotter on his desk, bound in silk and satin. In one corner was the first letter of his name, while on the other was embroidered a lotus with golden thread. It took him not a moment to appreciate the history and the significance of the blotter. His heart danced and his soul accepted without debate or demur that needlework was not a trite affair, after all. Holding the blotter to his breast, he felt ready to accept defeat to Akshay. At once he placed a notepaper on the blotter and wrote…
"Had I been a poet, I would have given you verses in response but I am deprived of this talent. God has not endowed me with the ability to give, but to take is an ability too. No one but the Almighty will know how I have accepted this undreamt-of gift. Giving is visible but receiving is concealed in the heart. Yours, Ever-indebted."

The letter reached Hemnalini. They had no further conversation about this. The rain closed in. The monsoon is supposedly not a pleasurable experience for urban society – it is better suited in the forests. The houses with their closed windows and roofs, the pedestrians with their umbrellas, and the trams with their curtains only turn muddy and filthy in their attempts to keep the rain at bay. Rivers and mountains and forests and plains offer a lusty welcome to their friend – the joy of monsoon. That is where the true celebration of rain is to be found – where there are no obstacles to the joyous meeting between the earth and the sky. But new love places humans in the same category as mountains and forests. The incessant downpours made Annada-babu’s digestive machinery twice as inefficient but nothing could dampen Ramesh and Hemnalini’s spirits. The dark clouds, rolling thunder and clatter of raindrops seemed to bring their hearts closer. On some days, the morning showers became so torrential that an anxious Hemnalini said,
"How will you go home in this driving rain, Ramesh-babu?"
In sheer embarrassment, Ramesh answered,
"It’s not too bad, I shall manage." Hemnalini said,
"Why must you get wet in the rain and catch a cold? You can easily have lunch with us."
Ramesh was not in the least worried about catching a cold; his friends and family had never seen any signs of his being afflicted with this ailment. But he was compelled to spend rainy days under Hemnalini’s assiduous care – even the short walk home was considered foolhardy. At the slightest sign of rain, Ramesh would receive an invitation from Hemnalini for the traditional monsoon lunch of khichuri and its suitable accompaniments. It was clear that their anxiety about the possibility of catching a cold was not matched by their worry about indigestion. Days passed. Where would these emotions lead?

Ramesh was too immersed in them to have thought about the future. But Annada-babu was certainly thinking about it, as were others around them. In any case, Ramesh’s common sense was not as strong as his erudition and it had been further weakened by his current infatuated state. Annada-babu looked at him with expectation every day, but received no response.

Ramesh went home. The rain had only paused briefly, now it resumed noisily. Ramesh did not sleep that night. Hemnalini sat in silence too, listening to the unceasing raindrops, while in her ears played…
"There’s an eastern wind, I cannot sleep without my love."
The next morning, Ramesh sighed to himself,
"If only I could sing, I would not hesitate to give up all other learning."
But he had no hope of ever acquiring the ability to sing, in any manner whatsoever.
"I shall learn to play an instrument," he decided. He had once taken advantage of being alone in Annada-babu’s house to pick up the violin and draw the bow across the strings. The goddess had groaned so loudly at a single stroke that he had abandoned all hope of playing the violin, since that would amount to cruelty. Today, he purchased a small harmonium. Shutting the door and running his fingers across the keys, he realized that, no matter what it suffered, this instrument was more tolerant than a violin. As soon as Ramesh reached Annada-babu’s house the next day, Hemnalini said,
"I could hear a harmonium playing in your house yesterday!" Ramesh had assumed that shutting the door would have kept him from being found out. But there were ears that could hear what was going on even behind Ramesh’s closed doors. He had to admit, slightly red-faced, that he had purchased a harmonium and wished to learn to play it.
"Why must you try in vain behind closed doors?" said Hemnalini. "You’d better practise here instead – I will help you as much as I can."

"But I am a beginner," said Ramesh. "You will suffer because of me."

"Considering the extent of my knowledge, I can only teach a beginner," said Hemnalini.
It became evident that Ramesh was not being modest when describing himself as a beginner. Despite the assistance of an instructor like Hemnalini, a sense of music found no route into his head. Although the water of the octave was only knee-deep, Ramesh behaved the way a non-swimmer does in water, his limbs flailing. There was no telling where his fingers would descend – he hit false notes constantly, but they did not register in his hearing. He went on playing with assurance, without any partiality between the tuneful and the tuneless, breaking every rule of the ragas and raginis. Whenever Hemnalini said, "What are you doing, that’s not correct…", he immediately neutralized the first error with a second one. Serious and persevering by nature, Ramesh was not one to give up easily. Just like the steamroller that trundles slowly forward when a road is being built, caring little for whatever is being ground beneath its wheels, Ramesh travelled back and forth over the hapless notations and keys with the same inexorable blindness. Hemnalini laughed at his inability and so did Ramesh himself. His extraordinary capacity for making mistakes afforded considerable amusement to Hemnalini. Only love can extract joy from mistakes, from tunelessness, from sheer incompetence. When the child learns to walk, it takes false steps repeatedly, strengthening the mother’s love further. Ramesh’s profound ignorance about music was a source of great entertainment for Hemnalini.

"You laugh so much at me, but did you make no mistakes when you were learning?" Ramesh asked sometimes.

"I must have made mistakes, but to tell the truth, Ramesh-babu, none of them was comparable to yours," answered Hemnalini. Far from being put out by this, Ramesh would laugh and start all over again. Annada-babu understood nothing of music; he would appear occasionally, listen gravely and observe, "Ramesh is getting better." "Getting better at being off-key," Hemnalini would say.
"Not at all, he’s become far more adept than when he began. I really think that if Ramesh perseveres he will become quite good. Music is nothing but a matter of practice. Once a sense of melody has been instilled, everything becomes easier."
It was impossible to protest. They listened without retorting.