The Flute

Pritpal Singh Bindra

(3,673 words)
It was the first death anniversary of his wife, Rohini. Just about four weeks ago Ravi had come back from India. He did not talk much to any body, not even to Malti. Malti had come to collect him from Pearson Airport. Since his return, she had been preparing his meals and calling him down in the kitchen at the lunch and dinner times. He exchanged a very few words, and those too, which just related to his visits to various places of pilgrimage in India. Only once did he thank Malti for looking after the house in his absence. On the first day of his arrival he had tried to express his gratitude for managing Rohini’s wardrobe, but his voice choked. Malti never mentioned his wife’s name thereafter.

Almost whole day he had kept himself secluded in his bedroom, most of the time looking at the boxes packed and neatly stacked in one corner of the room. As the light started to subdue, he glanced out of the window. The sun had just begun to elope in the horizon. He moved back and placed himself on the bed. The newspaper cutting, which he had taken out of the Rohini’s bag a few days ago, was still lying on the coffee table. He picked it up, read it again mindfully and put it on the bed. With his face held in the cup of his hands, he sat there for some time. Suddenly he looked up, it was dark all around. He extended his arm and picked up the flute lying on the side of the bed. For the first time in a year and a few months his lips had the touch of the instrument. Since the time his wife was taken to hospital, he had never thought of it. He took a deep breath and blew into the pipe. It commenced transmitting a tranquilizing and heart-rending tune in the melancholy Raga Bihagra, and the music took him deep down the memory lane.

* * * * *

After submitting his Ph.D. thesis he had come to Manali in the Kulu Valley to seek solitude. He was staying in the Government Tourist Cottages. Just about a hundred yards above the slopes, he came across a very old little temple. People told him that it was hundreds of years old. He did not dispute although the formation of the idol of Lord Krishna, and the cottage itself, seemed quite contemporary.

It was his fourth day at the place. After his breakfast he took his flute and walked up the hill. He sat down on the stony platform of the temple. In a contemplative mood he put musical instrument on his lips and his fingers started to roll on.

Rohini was standing in the window of her room. Just last night she had arrived in Manali with a group of university post-graduates on an expedition. She was bewitched by the harmonious sound streaming through the trees. From the very childhood, she had been lured by the music. Her mother was a music teacher and, also, a devotee of Lord Krishna. Inspired by her, she never missed a congregation where devotional singing of bhajans, in the praise of the Lord, was proceeding. She had, as well, won a few laurels in the religious recitation contests held in the temples.

She ran out of the room and stalked up the hill-track chasing the music. She saw him there, sitting on the doorstep of the temple with his back towards the Lord's idol. She wanted to shout but the tantalizing melody made her just to sit down on a stone in front of him. She closed her eyes. Soon she was flying with melodous waves touching the trees, feeling the leaves, leaping in the bushes, palpating the flowers, jumping up and down the mountains, gliding through the valleys and sailing over the serenely flowing River Beas.

Suddenly she felt she had been thrown in the cold streams of water; his lips had stopped blowing into the hole. Without uttering a single word, both constantly looked at each other. After a long gaze, she gave a jolt to her head. She stood up abruptly and blared, "Why are you sitting with your back to the exalted Lord Krishna?"

Standing up, he bowed his head and, apologetically, expressed, "I am sorry," and turned his face to bow to the Lord.

She came forward, "But your play is mesmerizing. Where did you learn this?"

"My father, Shri Khanna Lal Jee?" He replied.

"Khanna Lal Jee? Who in the world hasn’t heard of him? My father is a music producer in All India Radio. He knows him very well."

And shortly after their return to New Delhi, Ravi and Rohini were life partners. Within a few years they were in Canada where Ravi was appointed as Professor in the University of Toronto.

Rohini had just turned sixty. Ravi was five years older and both had attained retiring age within three months of each other. Whereas he was granted lucrative job-pension, she started to get handsome Old Age Security. They always bragged that long before their births they knew about their migrating to Canada and, inherently, they had the knowledge of the Canadian system of Pensions and Old Age Security; men retired at the age 65 and women at 60.

They, even, justified the difference of three months in their dates of birth. They did not want to fall under the same period of the Zodiac; if one month was unlucky for one, it could be lucky for the other and the lucky one would pull through the other.

They hardly ever remained separated. They could easily count on their fingers the short spells in their lives when they had to stay away from each other. A few months after their marriage Rohini's mother had requested Ravi to leave her at her parent's for a few days.

"No way," Ravi replied, "If we come, we come together and go back together." She never asked again. Even when Rohini's father was on his deathbed, they came, stayed for a few days and went back simultaneously.

In Canada, too, they had come to be known as love birds. Ravi would not accept an invitation for any social function or ceremony where, he thought, the men would be dominating. The conservative peasantry class of first generation Punjabis was domineering the society. Their women folks sat separately, normally confined to the cooking area, whereas the men enjoyed the drinking sprees in the lounges. If ever Ravi and Rohini, unaware of the fact, came across such a company they would present some excuse and leave the place.

However, there was only one exception. Whereas Rohini frequented exclusive ladies religious congregations, Ravi concentrated on his academic studies.

Although, unfortunately, they had no issues, they never lamented for this deficiency. Both of them treated each other like a child and enjoyed the living. They had no other relatives in Canada but, to fill the gap, they often swore and quarreled like brothers and sisters and, several times, one tried to smother the other like father or mother. Their life was quite wholesome.

Rohini had regularly pursued Ann Lander's Columns in the Life Section of the Daily Toronto Star. Two years ago she came across a letter, read it several times with great intensity, cut it out and preserved it in her hand-bag. Till that time she had never pondered over the eventuality of one dying before the other; not even when Ravi had triple by-pass heart surgery about ten years ago. Both had medical check up every year. The revelation of any ailment never bothered her.

But, now, after reading that news column, she became extremely apprehensive at any trivial disorder, which Ravi faced. She was shaken when the Doctor told him to be careful as his blood-presser, sugar in blood and cholesterol level were abnormal, and the he had put him on light medication.

"Ravi, what would you do if I die?" she asked abruptly one day.

"I will marry again," he said jovially making fun of her question, "Don't be absurd," he continued, "You know how my health is turning. Doctor has already put me on medication. He has asked me to take very easy on the sugar. On the other hand you are perfectly fit except headache sometimes, and that too, when you exert too much while taking part in chanting the bhajans. Moreover, I am becoming lethargic day by day but you are always as active as you were at your young days. It is me who will be going first.... You tell me what will you do if I am gone? You will re-marry, won’t you?"

"It is a bad omen to ask such a question from a suhagan married woman," she replied repulsively.

When he pestered her time and again she rapped out, "Yes, I will. I will marry Lord Krishna.... How could I face my Lord, if I ever thought of any other man in my life? His devotees and my Congregationalist lady companions would laugh at me. Since our marriage, not even once I missed the fasting of the Karwa Chauth Vart observed by the suhagans for the welfare of their husbands. Don't ever put such a question again." And she started to cry insistently.

He never mentioned again but, internally, herself, she did reflect dreadfully upon the eventuality of Ravi's premature demise. The deliberations, how would she cope with the life all alone in this world full of treacheries, and how could she face isolation in such a big house all by herself, tormented her all the time. The flute, played by Ravi, had been her greatest solace in the past. But when he started to roll over his fingers, now, she would get panicky, `What will happen when this sound ceases to emanate?' She would take out the newspaper cutting and read it, and read again and again.

The only person in whom she could confide was Malti. She had met Malti at a religious service. Both were ardent singers of bhajans and became very propitious friends. Rohini knew that, soon, Malti would be left alone in Canada.

After the death of her husband in India, Malti had immigrated to Canada. Her daughter and son-in-law sponsored her. Her son-in-law accepted, now, a very lucrative post in Australia. The family decided to move there. To raise money to meet the moving expenses and the initial settlement costs, they sold their house. They took it granted that the mother would be accompanying them.

Malti had been very busy and enjoyed the company of her two grand-children up to the time they were in their elementary and middle schools. Now, as they were grown-up teenagers, Nani Maa had lost their comradely affection; they were busy either with their friends, games or schoolwork.

And above all she had learned that the life for people of her age group from India in Australia was very lonely. It had taken a few years for her to get settled in the life in Canada and that too because the social and religious atmosphere of her compatriots from India here was very congenial. She felt thoroughly homely and decided not to accompany her daughter. She had already applied for an apartment in a low-income housing-complex. She saw a few but she was dismayed, as, being a single person, she qualified for one bed-room dwelling only. As compared to her daughter's five-bedroom house, those seemed like black holes.

Rohini had gone to her to open her heart but hearing her tribulations, she just disregarded her own anxiety. However, she offered her to come to live in their house, as there was plenty of room there. Malti refused to live with them jointly but she suggested that she could rent their basement. Their house was on a ravine lot and the rear of the basement opened in the back garden. Many a time, Malti had admired their house and the basement.

"Yes," Rohini was too happy to accede to her request, "but only on one condition, we will not accept from you the rent more than what you would be paying at the housing-complex."

As a matter of fact, that is what exactly she had in her mind when she decided to talk to Malti.

Rohini was pretty confident that Ravi would not object to this arrangement but, still, she asked reluctantly. He was, rather, extremely pleased. Her recent composure had put him in a lot of apprehension and he thought, perhaps, Malti's company could uplift her gaiety spirits once again.

Within two months Malti moved. She felt much more relaxed and happier now. She had been working like a full-time maid in her daughter's house. Both, her daughter and son-in-law, were working and, most of the times except the weekends, she was confined to the domestic work.

Here, although she did her own cooking down-stairs, they, often, ate together. Ravi had been assigned an academic project by the University Publishers. He was quite busy in his study and the computer room. Ravi's only relaxation was playing flute for an hour or so in the morning. Rohini and Malti, both, equally relished the music sitting in the lounge. And at the recitations of bhajans at the ladies’ congregations they become a prominent pair, too.

Since her husband's death, Malti had adopted a very placid attitude towards her life. She seldom watched Indian movies and listened to ethnic radios. But, since she moved to Rohini's place, her life had a turn around. Not only she watched Indian movies on video and Indian TV Programs on weekends with Rohini, she also took active part in the jovial skirmishes of the husband and wife. Her ever-increasing casualness with Rohini endowed the latter most appeasing affection. In spite of the fact that the Doctor had increased the intensity of medication for her husband, Rohini felt the burden of her perturbations lessening significantly.

Lately Rohini had an acceleration in the intensity of her head-aches. She always kept a bottle of Tylenol in her purse and took two tablets a few times a day, particularly when she was taking part in bhajans over enthusiastically. One Sunday, while she was chanting `Hare Krishna' at a very high and fast pitch, she collapsed. The ambulance took her to the hospital. She was operated for the brain tumor. Over the period the tumor had developed long roots and she breathed her last within a couple of months.

Only once she had regained momentary consciousness. Both, Ravi and Malti were there in the room. She looked at them with great intensity. She seemed to be pressing upon her memory. The tears rolled down on both sides of her eyes. With great efforts she could hardly whisper, ‘’Topsy-turvy... turned topsy-turvy.’’

Ravi blamed himself. It was all his fault, he lamented, it was the result of his absurd remark, a bad omen, and he totally shut himself off. A couple of times when he tried to respond to the sympathetic delving of the people calling at his residence, he could not control his incessant cries. A few of his close friends brought meals for him and compelled him to eat. No body had ever accompanied the departing souls, to remain alive, they had stressed, he had to eat something,

Soon after the funeral he started to make his own morning tea, and, for lunch and dinner, Malti left food for him in his kitchen. She cooked in her own basement facility. Not to dishearten her for putting efforts in cooking his meals, in spite of no appetite, he partook of the food.

Four weeks after the funeral Ravi booked his air-ticket for India. He was going there to immerse the ashes in the Holy River Ganga. Before he made the program he requested Malti to stay and look after the house till, at least, he came back. He also mentioned that when he returned he might sell the house and move to an apartment, as he could not manage this huge mansion. He also requested her if she could, in the meantime, fold Rohini's dresses and suits, and pack them in boxes. This, once again, made him to sob.

From India he telephoned Malti and asked her if she did not mind he could go on a pilgrimage of all the holy places in India. He told her that there was no worry for the payments for the utility, telephone and tax bills, as all were already paid through the bank directly. She did not mind. It took over ten months for him in visiting all the pious places from Badri Nath, in the interior of Himalayas in the North to Rameswaram and Kanyea Kumari at the southern tip and from Dawarka in the west to Jagan Nath Puri and Goddess Kali in the east. Not only the holy places, he, also, visited almost all the big cities of India.

During his absence, Malti had brought a few packing boxes, and spent considerable time in meticulously folding all the clothes from Rohini's wardrobe. It was an agonizing and depressing task. All the time she was stocking the dresses she could not help her tears.

One day, as she had packed all the boxes, she saw Rohini's hand-bag lying near the dresser. It was open. She picked it up. There was just one piece of paper lying inside. She took it out and read it. She threw herself on the side chair and went through the contents once again.

She had been sitting there for long time when she caught sight of the ebonite flute with silver trappings. She had given this to Ravi on his last birthday. She remembered, just before cutting the cake, she presented it to Ravi. He came forward and gave her a light kiss on her cheek in thanks.

Rohini interrupted with a cunning smile, "Is that all? She had been to Gerard India Bazaar several times to get it on a special order from India and you just brushed her off with little kissy."

Saying, "I am sorry," he extended his arms and, holding her over her shoulders pulled towards him and, again, kissed her on her forehead.

Malti felt apathetic, 'Why not a proper kiss', she thought, 'I wish we were born in the West. At least he would have given me a worthy hug.' Her lips started to flutter. Her eyes fell upon Rohini. 'Oh my God', she cursed herself, 'why did such a thought come into my mind?' She felt every drop of her blood drained out of the body. She, nearly, staggered and put her hand on her head. Rohini did not notice as the whistling-kettle had diverted her attention.

"Are you alright?" Ravi asked helping her into the chair.

"Yes... yes, I am alright. Since this morning I have been feeling a bit dizzy. I think flu is coming."

That whole night she could not sleep. Again and again she cursed herself, and swore never again to let such evil notions creep into her mind. Then on, she made sure that any time she came across Ravi, Rohini was there.

But, in spite of all her efforts, she could not control her heart palpitation whenever she faced Ravi, especially when Rohini was not around.

And today, once again, the newspaper cutting and the flute had stormed her thinking.

She put the paper back and replaced the bag there where it was lying before.

* * * * *

He had been playing the flute for a long time when Malti stepped in the house. She had hardly reached the hall-way, when her ears transmitted the spellbinding waves to her heart. Her mind effectively went blind of any other thought. Her feet started to roll up the steps and soon she was standing outside Ravi's bedroom door. But Ravi was thoroughly engrossed in the play. The tranquilizing notes radiating from his flute relayed an electrifying effect. Malti, with her eyes shut, and absolutely lost in the entrancing music, stood there leaning on the door ledge. The streams of tears dropping out of her eyes fell upon her hands resting on her chest. The warmth of the tears startled her. Her dropping hand hit the door. Ravi abruptly pulled the instrument away and looked up.

"Who? ..." He moved his hand and switched on the bed-lamp.

"You Malti? When did you come?"

"Don't know... Perhaps...." the sight of the newspaper cutting interrupted her. She stepped forward and, without giving him chance to speak, and beseeching like a child, she requested, "No, Ravi Jee, no. Please don’t stop." She took hold of his hands and flute. While pushing them up delicately, she espied his lips.

"Oh, my God, how long have you been playing? Your lips are nearly cracking. She put her right index finger on his lips and gently rubbed them.

He did not repel.

She continued, "How soft and delicate they are... For a long, long time I had desired to touch them, feel them... and... and ...." she put her lips on them.

And, the let-loose flute slipped down on the newspaper cutting, which, to both of them, seemed as Rohini’s last will:

A Letter to Ann Landers, Columnist, Daily Toronto Star from A.C.

~END~