2A 702

Category: , , , By The Last Leg



As a little kid still walking on all fours, more out of choice than an inability to walk properly, Sinha had spent many a dedicated evenings listening to his father sing. Not that he had much choice, with his supposedly rich lifestyle leaving him no friends to play around with. That given, he adored his father’s voice – growing up to believe that no person could express grief, glee, love and remorse and the entire relative gamut of emotions as well as his father.


More than a listener, Sinha was an extension to all that his father sung about. He would join him unfailingly, match every note of his with the perfection of a maestro, and even outdo him in his inability to hold a note for long. The father, encouraging and proud, took as much delight in his son’s prowess as he did in his own. He would often challenge Sinha with renditions of timeless classics, ones that he had devoted years of rigorous training and riyaaz to perfect, only to be stumped by his son and his quick and unexpected grasp. Together, they admired and learnt from each other.



This one evening, it rained like it never had, like it really wanted to rain. The prodigies, both followers and disciples of each other, sat around a fireplace clearing their throats. Mutually, they had decided to sing for their mothers tonight -a simple song, no difficult notes, no elaborate aalap, just the first two lines.


‘Aye Maa, teri surat se alag

Bhagwan ki surat kya hogi?’


Both mothers in anticipatory attendance, the sons sang. The son hit every note perfect, as he always used to. The father faltered, choked, paused and broke down in inconsolable tears. Sinha smelt victory for the briefest of moments, then saw it being snatched away. For the rest of the night, the better part of tomorrow and most of his years – as a child, as an adolescent, as a boy and as a man, he wondered what happened that evening. He wondered how his father, the greatest singer of all, could falter at two of the simplest lines he had ever sung. He wondered why he cried. He wondered why HE did not. He wondered.


And then, he met Saraswat.


 

4 comments so far.

  1. Apurva September 8, 2009 at 2:39 PM
    i guess the random frivolities of boyhood always turn into realizations of the morrow!
    A Catharsis well put....

    Hope it touches as many people....
    in a similar magnitude similar to mine!

    Simply Masterful!
  2. Marvin September 8, 2009 at 7:45 PM
    i really like your style of writing. it's somewhat like verse presented in the form of prose. best of both the worlds. have been a regular here. but never bothered to comment. am adding you on my blog. hope that's ok!
  3. The Last Leg September 9, 2009 at 11:19 AM
    @ Apurva -

    ***the random frivolities of boyhood turn into realizations of the morrow***

    I am honestly flattered with the kind of words used in most of the comments that follow my posts - tells me I have intelligent readers. *wink wink*

    On a more personal note, I hope it touches Saraswat the most.

    @ Marvin -

    I have seen this name so often on Piper's blog I kind of assumed you might be reading my posts too. Anyway, I am glad you do and I hope I can keep up the good work.

    As for adding me onto your blog, why would that ever be a problem?

    Cheers!
  4. AppuApe September 9, 2009 at 4:05 PM
    i wonder why there is the *wink wink* .... i dont think there is a doubt at all that you have intelligent readers! Just Kidding...

    oh n as for the words.... i've been reading "Saki" so the british usage.... i kinda like it!

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