All in the April evening…

Summer evening. I see leaves fall, bleeding their colours into the Earth. A few friends and I walk on the pavement and the music concert ground slowly looms into our vision. There’s a sudden young and endearing rush in our merry chatter which we know will be soon silenced by a violin and a flute bringing alive some Hindustani raagas.

We are early and so we choose the best seats. My roving eyes hunger for his presence. He isn’t there yet – the pointy-nosed poet who is tired of all the poetry on moon. So much for being a poet; I roll my eyes but admit to myself that I am infinitely amused by this aversion of his. I sigh and remember that I have a book of Gulzar’s poetry in my bag – I Swallowed the Moon. The moon. Ha! I read a few poems, few Urdu words tickling my tongue, settling slowly under my skin, thrumming in my veins. woh yaar hai jo khushboo ki tarah, jiski zubaan Urdu ki tarah… that beloved who is like sublime fragrance, whose language is as sweet as Urdu… I read on.

woh jo shayar tha, chup sa rehta tha behki behki si baatein karta tha aankhein kaanon pe rakh ke sunta tha… there was a poet, a quiet one, whose words would swerve and change their course often, who would listen with his eager eyes kept wide open on his ears… Gulzar’s poet has a face in my head; he is now mine. My girls remind me of a gorgeous song and we hum along: dhaage tOD laao chaandni se noor ke… pluck out gently those strings of radiance from the moonlight… The moon. Again.

I see him at the entrance, a handsome man in a turmeric-hued shirt. I walk up to him, a tinge of haste when I fling myself into his arms. He smiles, his calm brown eyes beaming mischievously breaking my heart. “I want to meet your friends; I’m tired of talking to you today,” he teases me. Pushing me aside, gently, he goes and shakes hands with them. “Hmmm, charming,” I tell myself, watching him from a distance, overjoyed in a budding romance. My girls give me a look of approval after a few minutes of conversation (oh, it’s bloody important!), a bit of friendly taunt in their nods. I’m a happy soul.

The artists arrive and the stage is a soft amber glow. Chandeliers above are mute and still but glorious. I notice how the arena is full of people now. We fall silent; the artists are busy tuning their instruments. Sometimes uptight in giving directions to the sound department personnel, but still charming is their need for perfection.

The magic begins. Raaga Shuddh Kalyan begins to bloom, followed by a beautiful rendition of Raaga Rageshree – a few plucked strings and breath striking soundholes becomes music, divine and absolute in its influence over us. A violin and a flute stirring and cajoling and hurting gently the air between us. Music, bringing cheerful anguish in those euphoric moments of our gasping, like the joyful return of a dream; bringing peace and equilibrium when shaDja is sustained like it’s holding the whole universe from falling apart; bringing joy in those delightful glides from one svara, note, to another – meend, as they call it (a detail that brings to mind a dear person who’s an ardent lover of Hindustani music). There is an almost spiritual sort of liberation in the new mental, emotional space created in our hearts and minds.

After what felt like an eternity of blissful being, we walk out soon after the concert ends, somewhat rehumanised, and I still feel a few niceties of the raagas resonating in me. The world is now a surreal place and in twilight it shines softly, timidly. He takes my hand in his and our fingers entwine and I tremble, demurely I’d like to believe. I am scared that all my scars might make me a nervous wreck like they did on the first evening I met him, that my impulses that now amuse this man might one day drive him away. But I calm myself and remind myself of the significance of the now, this moment. I try to feel his fingers between mine even closely, swooning in his very presence.

My girls walk ahead of us, their presence meaning a great strength to me in times of such sweet uncertainties. One of them, who’s nursing a recently-broken heart, breaks down just before boarding her taxi and I suddenly feel guilty about holding hands with this almost-lover of mine. I rush to her and hold her tightly and I can feel the other soul-sister’s reassuring presence doing its job quietly in pacifying the one in my arms. The sobs stop and we bid her a good night.

Now the three of us, standing silent for a minute under a moonless sky, decide to walk on until we find a rickshaw or a cab for ourselves. We don’t say much, and for that moment, we are enough even with all our broken hearts and broken dreams. We all have plans for tomorrows that might tear us apart from one another but for now, we are here and that’s all that matters. For all those tomorrows that really don’t exist, we seem to say, “try us,” even as we walk as just three more obscure faces in the crowd. For now, we don’t want to sell our todays to buy tomorrows that are still non-existent.

The friend walks ahead of us again, and he takes my hand in his again. Tenderly. And we happily fade away into the night, our nebulous emotions making us nothing more and nothing less than human, all too human.