In the Evening

We were sitting in the garden, when over the neighbour's wall came the sound of a singing lesson. A man's voice rose in a quavering phrase, a pause, the phrase repeated, again and again. The student's reply was softer, more silence than voice. At last the teacher must have been satisfied, he moved to the next phrase. It began from the same place, but soared higher, ended higher, on a note that avoided finality. That plaintive note, waiting for completion, again and again. Finally the student's voice, a woman's, strengthened, and the two voices sang together.

Unfinished things inspire most affection, are most evocative. They are imperfect enough so that one can identify with them, aspire to them. Hearing these voices, the careful repetitions, the climbing, the pauses, I looked at Ramesh. He was not listening, absorbed in some question of his own.

I swim along the winding stream of the notes' eddies and back again, the song still unfinished.

Years ago, when I studied singing for a short time, I sat cross-legged on the floor facing my teacher, Mani Sir. His cherubic face was ringed with white hair. He had a benign smile and a beautiful high voice. His white cotton clothes were shabby. He raised his face and sang a simple phrase as if it came from heaven. My response was laborious, phrase by phrase, each separate, not knowing the whole. He taught me as he had been taught, his hand marking the pattern of beats on one knee, mine tentatively doing the same. At the end, the phrases joined, and there was almost music.