Ultimate Reunion

Music Connects

Next morning Piyali was there at Mukundo's place fifteen minutes ahead of time. She was already waiting for him when he walked in at five minute to five. He hadn't expected her to come back. But he concealed his surprise well. He motioned towards the Tanpura. She picked it up, sat down on the carpeted floor and tuned it. Then they started the practice.

Mukundo corrected her when needed, demonstrated the improvisations to her. After about forty five minutes, however, he stopped interrupting and just asked her to sing after him.

When he came to, it was quarter to eight. Mukundo looked around and saw his other students sitting at some distance from them, listening intently. They must have come at their usual time! Then his eyes met with Piyali's and confusion washed over both their faces. What had just happened? How did they lose themselves like that?

When Piyali grew conscious of other people sitting in the room, her face coloured. "Shall I leave now?" she asked meekly.

He just nodded. Piyali put the Tanpura back in place and left wordlessly, leaving Mukundo behind to explain, or to not, to his students what had just happened.

--

"If you have to give your life to music, don't die twice as quickly by working so hard at other things as well," Debangi Banerjee, Piyali's mother, was annoyed with her.

"What do you mean, Ma?" The conversation was not new to Piyali. She spoke with practised patience.

"You left at four in the morning. You are coming back at eight in the evening. You will fall ill at this rate. Stop giving evening tutions. We can do without that money."

"I know it isn't much, Ma. But it, at least, covers Priyendra's school fee." She herself had her college tuition fee waived off on a merit scholarship. Priyendra was her younger brother.

"You have only twenty-four hours in a day, like all of us. And you won't give up music. Then stop abusing your body. It needs rest."

"In two hours, that's exactly what I am going to get, Ma. And please stop worrying. I am not going to be like Baba. That's my promise, not just to you, but to myself too. I am not expecting music to earn my livelihood. It's less than two years now. As soon as I graduate, I will find a job and you won't have to worry any longer."

"Not like him," Debangi muttered under her breath, when Piyali out of hearing, "This craze for music and she is not going to be like him!" Then she hollered, "Will you have tea? Or shall I serve dinner directly?"

"I need tea, Ma. Have to study for a while. Don't wait on me for dinner. I will help myself before sleeping."

Debangi had been running the family by taking up sewing and knitting for neighbours since her husband had died. Even when he lived, he could not have been bothered with earning livelihood, so occupied he was in his pursuit of music. Music for music's sake. He could never think of making money from it. But some money kept coming because he always had students, most of whom, thankfully, paid on their own accord. But when he died in an accident, there were no savings to resort to. Financial planning could hardly be expected from someone who didn't know how to make money in the first place.

Piyali was old enough at that time, about fourteen, to understand all this. She understood her mother's frustrations; her disappointment in her husband, and as an extension, in music. But for good or for bad, her father had instilled the love for music in her. It was as much her life, as it had been her father's. She couldn't have given up on it. Despite knowing how irresponsible he had been, she couldn't hate her father. She had just vowed to not be like him – in the matters concerning responsibility towards the family.