Back in his chair, Haresh says, ‘Eight years ago, just after this child was born, she was diagnosed with uterine cancer in a pretty advanced stage. We had to remove her uterus and both her ovaries. Secondaries were a more or less foregone conclusion. But they didn’t happen. She's still free of the disease.’

‘Remarkable! How did that happen?’

‘Difficult to say. Our prognostications are based on statistics. But the human body is a miraculous organism. Each body is unique. She says my healing touch did it. But my surgery only accomplished the first and necessary part of the healing. There was chemotherapy after that and finally radiation. Through it all, it was her body that was doing the most important part of healing. But she puts her faith in my touch. All I can do is feel humbled. Now tell me what the hell's the matter with you.’

‘Nothing more than what I told you over the phone, Harya. Just that. It seems so trivial now. The way my hand trembled that night really shook me up. It's frightening when the body does something that's outside your control.’

‘You’re just fine. I can tell by simply looking at you. But we’re in our forties, so it's a good idea to have a complete check-up. Why don’t you see Dr Janorkar at Opera House? He's an excellent physician, close to your place and interested in your arty-farty stuff.’

The crowd outside Haresh's room has increased. The patients sit patiently. They look at Ashesh with interest as he emerges. Has he been given good news or bad? Then their glances transfer to Dr Pounda's door where their future is to be decided.

Ashesh descends to the lobby by lift. Visiting hours have started. The visitors’ lounge is packed. It is a whole new world for Ashesh. He sits quietly in a corner watching the ebb and flow of the crowd, its gestures and its expressions.

20

‘You’ve got it,’ Sharada says. Then urgently, ‘Hold on to it. Don’t let go.’ Janaki is panting. She has never heard this voice before. It is so raw and sharp that she gapes at her guru like Eliza at Higgins, but for the reverse reason. Eliza shed her natural voice for an artificial one. Janaki has shed her artificial voice for her true one.

Sharada laughs out loud at the despair on Janaki's face. ‘Find your own voice strange? Wait till we’ve worked on it. It’ll lose all its edges.’

The search had begun a month ago. Janaki had sat before Sharada, tanpura in hand, lesson after lesson, completely winded, throat dry. One day Sharada had taken the tanpura from her and slid it into its cover. ‘You want desperately to sing. You are trying hard. Working at it. In a sense, you’re even singing. I can hear that. But . . . you’re too tense. Your voice simply isn’t coming through.’