Chapter 4: {Strings}
I opened my eyes to someone gently shaking me awake. As my eyes focused I was greeted with the perfectly practiced smiling face of an air hostess.
"Sir, we'll be landing shortly. Please put on your seatbelt." I nodded as she watched me sit up straight and click my seatbelt back into place. She was pretty with pouty lips stained red with lipstick and her uniform hugged her in all the right places. She was making those eyes at me , you know the one that says, 'Have sex with me.'
I smiled back as I stretched my arms with a yawn. She saw my bulging biceps and her eyes darkened with lust. I go to offer my hand and stop. All the rippling tides of lust went still as my eyes landed on the shiny gold ring on my finger.
"Thanks." I smile and start fiddling with my phone. She was my type but I just couldn't bring myself to go through it.
Ever since I was little I saw my father looking at my mother. You know with that glint in his eyes. The one that says, 'You are my world.' And once I asked him about it.
"There are many different types of relations between people,son. And one should give their all in the relationship. Even if the other party doesn't reciprocate their feelings from at least your side, the delicate thread should be held tightly. So even if it comes to an end, you'll know you tried. You are not gonna get it until you grow old."
I had fallen asleep as he talked a bit more about relations between people and the next day when I woke up he was gone, deployed back overseas and he never came back home again. These were his last words to me. And it's because of these words alone that I have never been able to cheat on Christian. Even though this marriage is just a business deal, the vows were real, the pastor was real and the kiss was real. That was the only time we had ever kissed but I still remember it. It was different from kissing a woman. His lips weren't as soft but they were powerful and rough. And his facial hair that brushed against me left sparks in their wake. And all the while we kissed, even if it was for just a few seconds, he looked at me with those blue eyes that made my heart pound faster as I felt a wave splash against my subconscious. But before I could figure out what that was, it was over. Our first kiss and after that he never looked at me like that again.
I heard the air hostess leave when the pilot announced something but I was too preoccupied by my thoughts to understand. I was a man as well with needs. When I found out about Christian sleeping with others, I also went to a club and picked up someone. But I couldn't go through with it. Her lips were soft and that reminded me of Christian's strong ones which led me to remember my father's words. I tried a few times but when I couldn't, I resigned to my fate and started wearing my wedding ring at all times. It acted as a shackle on my desires. No matter how horny I was, as long as it was on my finger I knew I wouldn't go through it.
Marriage to me never had been a joke, so even though the marriage was a contract and had no love, there was a relationship thread that had been established and I would hold my end with all my strength.
It was seven in the morning when I finally got out of the Airport and the freezing winds of Maine smacked me in the face. I peered around and found what I was looking for.
"Taxi!"
***
"Here we are." I looked out the taxi window at the beige coloured home that was decorated for Christmas. It was small but cosy. I smiled as past memories came to the forefront of my mind.
"Keep the change." I got out after handing him a few bills.
"Thanks man." Tyres crunched on gravel as he pulled out of the driveway. I walk up and the door opens even before I knock.
"You are two days late." Mrs. Bhatia said in her Hindi accent as she looked at me with a raised eyebrow. She was nearly eye level to me standing just two inches short of me. Her dark brown eyes complemented her light brown skin tone. She was dressed in a plain white Punjabi suit with mustard bottoms and dupatta.
I just smiled and hugged her. "Happy belated birthday, aunty." In her fifties the wrinkles and laugh lines were prominent on her face. She smelled of hair colour explaining her black tresses.
She hugged me back and then held me at arms length inspecting me. "You have gotten leaner compared to last year." Her eyes landed on my hand and she raised it and held it up to her face. She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "Someone forgot to invite us to their wedding."
I pulled back my hand and rubbed my nape with an awkward chuckle. "Yeah. It's complicated."
She just shook her head with the disappointed parent look in her eyes. "Go meet Yuvraj. He's been waiting for you all night." She let me in and closed the door and went to the kitchen. The layout and colours were the same as I remembered. Barely anything has changed over the years in the small two bedroom house.
As I ventured inside I heard the sound of tanpura. I followed it into the back room that had been turned into a music room. The walls were a red colour and different Hindustani classical instruments lined them. In the middle was a small raised platform with an Arabian carpet on top of.
Sitting in the middle of the platform was an Indian girl of my age. She was fiddling with the four strings of a familiar worn out tanpura trying to tune them. Beside her was a man in his fifties wearing a small saffron turban and had a full untrimmed beard. Even though the beard was black, the white hair peeking out of the turban and the wrinkles on his face said otherwise. He sat cross legged behind a harmonium.
Sensing my presence, Simran looked up and then elbowed her father. "Papa."
When he looked at her she gestured in my direction with a tilt of her head.
The smile that graced his face as soon as he saw me gave me butterflies.
"ਮੇਰਾ ਸ਼ੇਰ ਪੁੱਤਰ!" He exclaimed and quickly got up, well as quickly as his pot belly and old bones would allow him, and hugged me. He was nearly my height and smelling the beard gel he used to keep his fluffy beard in check made me nostalgic as I hugged him back. I took a trip down my memory lane remembering when he used to teach me English at school.
"Hello, uncle." I pulled back and he started inspecting me just like his wife did.
"Look at you." He patted my body. "You have become so thin. Seema! Make butter chicken for lunch. The boy can use some more meat on his bones." The last part was shouted at his wife.
"Already marinating." Came her reply.
"A few months of no contact and you had papa believing that something had happened to you." Simran Bhatia came behind her father and hugged me as well. Her complexion was between her mother's light brown and father's dark brown but she didn't inherit their height and stood at five four.
"Something did happen." Seema came in and raised my right hand without warning where my wedding ring shone brightly. The father daughter pair looked at the ring and then my face with wide eyes.
I pulled my hand back and rubbed my nape with an awkward chuckle from habit.
I looked at them sheepishly. Simran was amused but her father's eyes showed how hurt he was. Ever since my father passed away he was the closest to me as a father figure. They always treated me as a member of their family. I was like a son they never had.
But when my wedding date came, I was already too preoccupied by my own emotions to think about anyone else. The thought of inviting them had crossed my mind several times but I always chickened out because I did not know his thoughts on gay marriage. And this topic had never been broached before. The thought of them never talking to me scared me more than I would like to admit. I had come prepared to tell them all about my marriage but I was still very much scared.
"It's complicated." I finally spoke out after a few moments. Seeing the troubled look on my face Simran became concerned. Even the hurt and disappointment in her parents' eyes turned to worry as they thought the worst considering they had been through a tough time during their wedding as well.
Yuvraj was a Sikh from Punjab while Seema belonged to a Hindu family from Bengal. Seema's family moved around a lot because her father was in the military. When he was transferred to Punjab, Yuvraj happened to become a student of her mother who used to teach Hindustani classical music. That's where they met and fell in love. At that time interfaith marriage was frowned upon in India. They married in secret against their family and after a lot of drama moved to the States where they have settled since.
"I think we should sit down." We sat down on the raised stage and I told them about the business deal and my marriage to a guy. About how it was rushed and how I had no idea. I did not look at them as I recounted it all.
As soon as I finished, Yuvraj went into a fit of curses in his mother tongue. His wrinkly face is full of anger. Seema looked a bit troubled while her daughter stroked my back with sympathy.
"Should I leave?" I asked her in a whisper.
She looked at me in bewilderment. "What? No! My dad's just angry at your family and mom is a bit perturbed. I know what you must be thinking. My parents are not that open minded but they love you. Sure they will be uncomfortable at first, but they will come around. According to my dad, as long as one is happy, others shouldn't poke their noses in their relationships." She gave me a sideways hug and squeezed my shoulders.
"Yuvraj your blood pressure is gonna rise. Calm down." Seema got up and dragged her pacing husband and made him sit on a chair forcefully.
"Don't tell me to calm down." He snapped. "What kind of parents would force their own children to be unhappy?"
I couldn't understand the rest of the conversation as it was in Hindi and Punjabi. It went on for a few minutes, Seema trying to calm him and Yuvraj snapping.
Simran nudged me and handed me a familiar looking worn out sitar. I smiled as she started gently disturbing the strings of the tanpura to give rise to the harmonic drone which is characteristic of Hindustani and Carnatic music.
The bantering couple stopped and looked at us. I removed my shoes and sat on the stage in the proper posture for sitar playing. I was racking my brain to find a proper raag from the handful of ones I knew.
I settled on the morning raag Miyan Ki Todi and put the wire plectrum on my middle finger and gently plucked the main string. The drone strings create a gentle hum as I explore the individual notes of the raag.
A few minutes into the alaap I look up to the sound of shuffling. Seema sat cross legged behind the harmonium and her husband sat behind the table and put a bit of talcum powder on the membrane of the percussion instruments to make them slippery.
Simran and I are the same age and used to be in the same class. It was through her I discovered music in elementary school and ever since third grade I have learned sitar from her mother. Even her father has taught me quite a bit of Hindi to make my learning easier, which needless to say I have forgotten over the years. I used to spend most of my day in this house rather than my own fiddling all day with the sitar. Other than their daughter I was the only person they passed on their craft to.
After my father's passing this house was my sanctum and music became my religion. This was also the time a rift came between my mother and me that just kept on increasing.
When my mother remarried and we moved to NY, I brought along my sitar but high school changed everything.
I closed my eyes and mentally shook away the memories of those dark days. It was all a long time ago and I'm not the same person anymore.
I opened my eyes and looked at Yuvraj and nodded my head as I began increasing the pace and went into the next stage of the progression, jor. The older man started gently tapping the membrane of the twin hand drums to produce rhythmic sounds to keep the time cycle of ektal in the vilambit laya.
The beginning of the raag is slow and the note phrases give the feeling of sad, pensive and mournful mood. These were the feelings I felt at the moment. Sad that my dad wasn't here, pensive because I hurt the people closest to me and mournful because I would be soon leaving them all.
Somewhere in my heart I knew we would move to the West Coast after my marriage. But when Christian stayed in New York and bought an apartment there I thought we were gonna settle here. He was just getting things in order at Santoro's company after the Smith and Santoro merger finalised after our marriage. My step brother was doing the same thing in California for the past few months.
And when finally reality slapped me in the face, the thought of leaving everything behind was not easy. I had just walked away to my room and laid down and slept without dinner like not thinking about the inevitable would stop it. I had snuck out of the house before sunrise to catch my flight without telling anyone.
The sound of second tanpura strings joining in called me back to reality. I saw Seema strumming a tanpuri. I looked at the three people around me and smiled inside my heart. That is what I loved about Miyan ki Todi. Even though it began with a sad mood, as I progressed into jhala, the drut laya relieved the earlier sad moods and the melody took on a festive tone.
I listened to the tabla beats to keep the composition in ektaal. My left hand moved along the neck rapidly giving my arm a familiar burn. My right hand resting on the base of the neck strummed the strings so fast that it looked effortless but I could already feel the webbing between my index finger and thumb cramping making me realise how out of practice I was.
When I ended the performance, there was a sheen of sweat on my forehead. I was tired but my heart felt light. Music has always allowed me to express the emotions I can't show or vocalise.
"What's the point of all these muscles when you get tired after just playing for a few minutes?" Simran mocked. "No stamina."
"Me and my sitar can outperform your vocals under the table." I challenged her.
"Oo.., the jugalbandi is on."
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