belief.
“Yes.”
They walked down the narrow street with haphazardly arranged houses, some made of wood, some concrete, some one floor high, some five or six floors high. Rickshaws, motorcycles and cars zoomed past them. Anand seemed blissfully unaware of the traffic and noise.
They reached the ramshackle hotel at the end of the street where the cab driver was parked. Max paid him and let him go. They walked two more blocks and stepped into a small, brown, oval-shaped temple. Up a flight of stairs they went, entering a large room with a white marble floor surrounded by statues of gods and goddesses. One muscular goddess had four snakes sculpted around her thick neck, another blue-colored god had a contemptuous smile on his face, another a lion under her feet, yet another had a bow and arrow in his hands with his tongue hanging out. None looked calm or inspired peace.
A corpulent man with a sitar and a gaunt woman with disheveled hair playing a musical instrument that had a flap and piano like keys sat on chairs in front of the statues, belting out loud, toneless songs. The twenty people sitting cross-legged in front of them nodded to the melody. Or the lack of it.
Anand joined the group on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, Max accompanied him. Fresh from the disastrous hike, his knees and ankles felt stiff and heavy like large blocks of stones. He crossed and uncrossed his legs.
Anand closed his eyes and nodded to the music.
Max tried to do the same.
He couldn’t. It didn’t take a musical genius to know that the singers couldn’t strike a single melodious note and that their instruments were badly tuned. They wailed and shrieked, their voices gruff and hoarse, sometimes so carried away by the melody only they could hear that they forgot to play the instrument, which was perhaps better.
Max waited a few songs for Anand to get up. He didn’t open his eyes.
The singers screeched on. Max fidgeted.
The singers moved from duet to solo performances. The sitar-wielding man in his tight sequined
kurta
shut his eyes and screamed, triple chin rolling, loose folds on his neck and waist flying in every direction. The spindly woman in her white
saree
looked on encouragingly, then sang in a low, whiny voice. Max’s skin crawled. A grating sensation went up his spine. He was in a medieval torture chamber.
Finally, a break. Everybody got up to leave—except Anand. And Max. Max stared at Anand’s closed eyes and peaceful face in disbelief. This sounded nothing like the deep, sonorous, oddly stirring music he had heard at Anand’s home. What was he hearing in it?
A fresh batch of unsuspecting listeners sat down on the floor. They too left after the next break.
Max excused himself two hours later when he thought he would burst out in tears and start throwing things around if another sound came from the fat man’s lips. Out in the busy street, he paced around. 4.30 p.m. He could still make it to the New Delhi airport just in time for the midnight flight if he left immediately. But something felt incomplete. Anand’s calm, silent face must have something to say. He had to give it another try.
Max walked back into the temple. Anand hadn’t budged from his position. Max sat next to him. The fat sitar-wielding singer was sweating profusely. Perhaps now he would stop from exhaustion. The woman kept her instrument down and wiped the man’s forehead with her handkerchief. It gave him a shot of new energy. He shouted even louder than before. Max listened to the lyrics. He could make out a few familiar words in the din. Ram, Krishna, Om. But they were being uttered so tonelessly that even the fierce-faced goddess riding a lion would likely recoil and cover her ears with all her ten hands. Perhaps that was the point. Scare God into submission. Force Him to grant all your wishes otherwise you’d never stop shrieking.
After two more hours of song, Max was in agony. He had missed his flight. The singing–shouting
“Yes.”
They walked down the narrow street with haphazardly arranged houses, some made of wood, some concrete, some one floor high, some five or six floors high. Rickshaws, motorcycles and cars zoomed past them. Anand seemed blissfully unaware of the traffic and noise.
They reached the ramshackle hotel at the end of the street where the cab driver was parked. Max paid him and let him go. They walked two more blocks and stepped into a small, brown, oval-shaped temple. Up a flight of stairs they went, entering a large room with a white marble floor surrounded by statues of gods and goddesses. One muscular goddess had four snakes sculpted around her thick neck, another blue-colored god had a contemptuous smile on his face, another a lion under her feet, yet another had a bow and arrow in his hands with his tongue hanging out. None looked calm or inspired peace.
A corpulent man with a sitar and a gaunt woman with disheveled hair playing a musical instrument that had a flap and piano like keys sat on chairs in front of the statues, belting out loud, toneless songs. The twenty people sitting cross-legged in front of them nodded to the melody. Or the lack of it.
Anand joined the group on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, Max accompanied him. Fresh from the disastrous hike, his knees and ankles felt stiff and heavy like large blocks of stones. He crossed and uncrossed his legs.
Anand closed his eyes and nodded to the music.
Max tried to do the same.
He couldn’t. It didn’t take a musical genius to know that the singers couldn’t strike a single melodious note and that their instruments were badly tuned. They wailed and shrieked, their voices gruff and hoarse, sometimes so carried away by the melody only they could hear that they forgot to play the instrument, which was perhaps better.
Max waited a few songs for Anand to get up. He didn’t open his eyes.
The singers screeched on. Max fidgeted.
The singers moved from duet to solo performances. The sitar-wielding man in his tight sequined
kurta
shut his eyes and screamed, triple chin rolling, loose folds on his neck and waist flying in every direction. The spindly woman in her white
saree
looked on encouragingly, then sang in a low, whiny voice. Max’s skin crawled. A grating sensation went up his spine. He was in a medieval torture chamber.
Finally, a break. Everybody got up to leave—except Anand. And Max. Max stared at Anand’s closed eyes and peaceful face in disbelief. This sounded nothing like the deep, sonorous, oddly stirring music he had heard at Anand’s home. What was he hearing in it?
A fresh batch of unsuspecting listeners sat down on the floor. They too left after the next break.
Max excused himself two hours later when he thought he would burst out in tears and start throwing things around if another sound came from the fat man’s lips. Out in the busy street, he paced around. 4.30 p.m. He could still make it to the New Delhi airport just in time for the midnight flight if he left immediately. But something felt incomplete. Anand’s calm, silent face must have something to say. He had to give it another try.
Max walked back into the temple. Anand hadn’t budged from his position. Max sat next to him. The fat sitar-wielding singer was sweating profusely. Perhaps now he would stop from exhaustion. The woman kept her instrument down and wiped the man’s forehead with her handkerchief. It gave him a shot of new energy. He shouted even louder than before. Max listened to the lyrics. He could make out a few familiar words in the din. Ram, Krishna, Om. But they were being uttered so tonelessly that even the fierce-faced goddess riding a lion would likely recoil and cover her ears with all her ten hands. Perhaps that was the point. Scare God into submission. Force Him to grant all your wishes otherwise you’d never stop shrieking.
After two more hours of song, Max was in agony. He had missed his flight. The singing–shouting
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