Somebody’s car horn gets stuck down the road. It bleats helplessly, on and on. Sindhutai closes her eyes, exhausted. Anima laughs soundlessly.

Sindhutai lies in bed every day, staring at the ceiling or weeping silently. Ashesh and Anima wonder whether there’s any point keeping her in Mumbai. They ask her if she would like to go back to Surgaon. For the first time since she came to Mumbai, her face breaks into a smile. She even comes out to the sitting room that evening. She is sipping tea when Janaki drops by as planned.

‘Ai, I’d like you to meet Janaki Patil. I am going to marry her.’ Sindhutai starts as if a bomb has fallen at her feet. She looks at Janaki, her forehead creasing vertically. ‘Patil? What is that?’

‘You want to know her caste, Ai?’ Ashesh asks.

‘Why would I want to know her caste? Patil is Pachkalshi or Maratha. But it makes no difference. You want to marry her, so go ahead. It’s fine by me.’

Janaki signals a question to Anima. ‘Shall I touch her feet?’

Anima signals back, ‘No.’ Janaki continues to stand awkwardly. As far as Sindhutai is concerned there is nobody besides herself in the room. ‘Perhaps I should go,’ Janaki murmurs at last.

Sindhutai looks at her now. ‘Why should you go? I’m the one who should go.’ She struggles to get up. Anima helps her. Steadying herself, she says, ‘You might as well touch my feet, girl. Let me bless you. I may not be around for your wedding.’

33

Sharada and Janaki enter the spacious sea-facing auditorium at the southern end of the city. Sharada is late. She had been listening to Abdul Wahid Khan sahib’s Darbari Kanada as she got dressed for the evening. She had been so lost in the leisurely pace of his singing that Karishma had had to call out twice to say she was taking Shantanu for his evening stroll, before she had heard her. The Kirana gharana maestro had teased out incredible variations on every note of the raag as he moved grandly up the scale. By the time he had arrived at the top with a sharp, precise shadja, she had stopped all pretence of getting ready. Raag Darbari was all around her, filling the room. She had allowed herself to be cocooned in its sombre notes, only half-conscious that she was getting late for her date with Janaki.

There was no point wondering why musicians no longer sang at Wahid Khan sahib’s pace. History could not be denied. Speed was the mark of the age. Those who resisted its temptations only did so because they mistook slowness for substance. They ground out every note with repetitious phrases and ended up making tedious, joyless music.