A Rather Long Short Story 7

She said, “I am practicing in the choir because that is all I can afford in my circumstances right now. Besides, vocal music does not make demands on your purse. My real passion is piano and guitar, but can’t afford.”

I looked at her carefully. She had placed her hands in front of her on the table and she was sitting in an upright position as if with her fingers on the keyboard of piano. She had long tapering fingers but the nails were bitten to the quick. Though there was no fidgetiness in her till then she became instantly self-conscious when she found me looking at her fingers. She immediately withdrew her hands and hid them in the pockets of her long skirt.

I offered her a piece of the cinnamon toast which she refused without an excuse. She seemed eager to talk but I could see her companions getting restless and impatient. The lady who accompanied her was making frantic signals for her to end the interaction with a stranger, but she was determined to talk. She moved her chair so as to block her companion out of view and asked me, “Are you interested in Western music?” I said, “I don’t understand the trends in music, neither in the west nor in India. I listen if it soothes my nerves”

“How did you find our singing? Was it soothing?”  She asked. I was at once struck by the fact that she said ‘our singing’, not ‘my singing’.  I realized that she was steeped in the spirit of the choir and had learnt to subdue her personality in the unified voice of the chorus. Perhaps that was the reason why she wanted to carve a niche for herself in piano or guitar. She answered the question in my mind rather surprisingly for me. She said, “Basically I am not cut out for team-work. I am at my best when I work alone.” There was very little time at her disposal and she did not know how best to use it. For a girl of her age she seemed rather grownup and sedate. But there was still some glint of silliness in her which showed when she asked impulsively, “Are you married?” I was tempted to say ‘no’ and watch her reaction. But by now I had begun to like her and refrained from playing games. I liked the spontaneous camaraderie she had begun to feel with me without any reason. I did not want to wreck it by giving a false answer to a question asked trustfully, whatever be its motive.  “Yes,” I said, “I am married.” The next thing I expected her to ask was: “How long?” But she again asked a question that was sillier still. She said,”Are you in love with your wife?”

I gave her a searching look. Perhaps she was brought up to believe that in India being in love with your spouse is not the demand of married life and that marriages survive without love. However, I thought it best to maintain silence. She did not seem to take my silence very seriously because the question she had asked did not carry weight; it was asked out of a casual interest, to set the ball rolling. But she immediately hastened to say, “Oh, sorry, I am afraid, I am being too personal.” I told her that I would bring it to her notice if she was so. She said, “Actually I am not very gregarious, you know?” She stopped and looked at me with a look which I thought rather presumptuous. I was amused to see that she was waiting to see if the word ‘gregarious’ was there in my vocabulary.

“One of my teachers is into ‘Zen,’ you know. I am learning the lesson of compassion from ‘Zen’. She says that one must feel the vibrations and respond positively. I think those who don’t speak that lingo call it being pro-active.” I started wondering what compassion and being positive or pro-active had to do with my being married or not. But I did not have to ask. She was quickly forthcoming with the explanation. She said, “You have a very sensitive face. I noticed that you looked lonely.”  This, if it were to come from any other woman who was a stranger, could have been construed as an innuendo. But I was gradually getting drawn into her world which had a strange fragrance about it.