When Anima replies at last, it is as though she is talking to herself. ‘There was a time when the bhayanak and the bibhatsa had no place in poetry either. Now it does. Poets decided poetry could not be just hasya, shringar and bhakti. It had to speak of other realities. If composers of classical songs feel the same way today . . .’

‘Connoisseurs and critics will not accept it.’

‘Who knows? It's all a question of habit.’

A long while later Janaki says, ‘But the words . . . after a concert, what we take home are the melodies. Today the words are coming too.’

11

Sunday is Janaki's day off, but the offness doesn’t begin till late afternoon. Before that, she washes the week's clothes, spreads them out to dry in every spare bit of space, draws money for the following week from the ATM and does her shopping. Today she must buy flowers for Sharada. She's been pestering Anima for an introduction since last Saturday's concert. Finally it has been fixed for this evening, five o’clock.

Shekhar opens the door to them. He's in shorts and a sleeveless tee. ‘Please excuse my Sunday best.’ He grins. Anima says to Janaki, ‘This is for your benefit, okay? I’ve seen him in worse and less.’

The living room is more space and less furniture. What furniture there is has style. The general colour scheme is off-white and olive green but there are discreet spots of red scattered in places like the cushion covers and the painting from Ashesh's abstract period. Sharada falls in with this scheme in her Adyar sari of green bordered by turmeric yellow.

‘Janaki, Mumbai Observer, came for your concert last Saturday, heard you first at the Deval Club, Kolhapur, went crazy over your music and wants to learn from you,’ Anima does a formal introduction. Sharada smiles but shifts her eyes quickly to the floor, embarrassed at the open admiration in Janaki's eyes.

They settle on the durrie.

‘From whom have you been learning?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Blank slate,’ Anima offers.

‘Bathroom singer?’

‘Not that either. At home it was . . . and here again . . .’

‘So what makes you want to learn?’

‘My mother used to sing . . . they say.’

‘They say?’

‘They say. I want to know if I’ve inherited anything.’

Anima gazes at Janaki. Sharada nods.

‘Would you like to come in please?’

Sharada leads them into a small side room. There are two tanpuras, a pair of tablas and a harmonium here, all in their cloth covers. They sit down. Sharada pulls the harmonium forward. Taking off its cover, she says, ‘I’m going to play the notes of the scale. Try and sing them after me.’

‘I’ll try.’