Part - 27
The woman Padmaja spots in
the far corner of the music hall looks familiar. The hair is the same
as she remembers, only it has grown wispier and more threadbare in the intervening years.
The woman wears a saree that seems to have been hastily draped like a
giftwrapper that's too big for a small parcel - bunched up here,
crumpled there. But did someone just refer to her as Dr. Gulati?
Padmaja hears the woman's throaty laugh and that clears the last of
her doubts about her identity. As if on cue, the woman too recognises
Padmaja and quickly peels away to get closer.
“Padmaja! How are you
dee?”, Sudha demands hugging her.
“Sudha, how are you?
You're now Dr. Gulati?”
“Yes, Punjabi husband.
Kept the name, lost the man. You look the same.”
Sudha is a professor of
Anthropology at a University in Delhi and she is in town for a
conference with her American friend Brad.
“Come visit me in Delhi,
Padmaja. My project will be over soon and once Brad goes back...”
Seeing Padmaja's raised
eyebrows, Sudha elaborates.
“It's not how you think it
is, with me and Brad. I can't handle anything permanent, you know.”
Her voice softens, her mind easing from the frenetic present to a
distant past. “Padmaja, you are one of the few people who remember
the old days, how things used to be. As I grow older, I find myself
missing that. Come stay with me.”
There is a pleading earnestness in her eyes as she grips Padmaja with both hands. The screeching microphone signals the beginning of the concert. The friends exchange contact details, promise to stay in touch and settle into their places.
There is a pleading earnestness in her eyes as she grips Padmaja with both hands. The screeching microphone signals the beginning of the concert. The friends exchange contact details, promise to stay in touch and settle into their places.
Padmaja sinks into the
comfort of her seat and closes her eyes to the strains of the
thambura.
“Excuse me, is this seat
taken?”
Reluctantly, Padmaja opens her eyes to see a man - bright white cotton shirt, veshti crisply fresh, horn-rimmed glasses that subtly scream wealth - standing beside her.
Reluctantly, Padmaja opens her eyes to see a man - bright white cotton shirt, veshti crisply fresh, horn-rimmed glasses that subtly scream wealth - standing beside her.
“No, it's free.”
On stage, Sanjay Subramaniam
begins his alaapanai in Kalyani. For once, everthing in that
mercilessly shrill city is still.
-@-
(concluded)