“Why?!”
Mrs Ganesh held a thin cane in her hand and came closer to her. Her scream was maniacal and her almond eyes glinted dangerously. That soft milky complexion waned and looked pale and white.
The wall provided comfort as she huddled against it, her head against her knees, arms wrapped around herself; some solidarity that backed her up. She chanced a glance at the portrait of her father on the wall between the whips, at the huge red dot that was on his forehead. His smile, his benevolence…
And then reality came into focus as the next sting came.
“CAN’T YOU GET IT RIGHT EVEN ONCE?!”
And the next sting came.
*
The red was everywhere now. But it was fluid, not at all powdery like kumkum powder. Kumkum powder fell everywhere and that’s why Jani had to keep dipping her index finger into the kumkum tray and dab it on the portrait of her father every day. Because kumkum powder falls off after a while, with the dust that blows it and changes everything. Like how the winds took him away from her and changed everything.
But this red, it stained the carpets. And the whimpering began to lessen now. There was still movement though. Soon, it would all be over.
And she lifted the instrument one more time.
*
When they brought the veenai into the house, Jani was indifferent. The relatives had talked about it. It was a family heirloom and her grandmother had just passed away, the great Madam Meenakshi. A skilled woman at the arts of the veenai and sithar, both string instruments of ancient Indian devotional music -- Carnatic music that Jani had had to learn when she was young. It was the only thing she took up voluntarily. She hadn’t a choice with the piano, organ or violin – all of which she had obtained teaching diplomas in already. Music came naturally to her, so it wasn’t so hard. But that was a blessing; it wasn’t that hard to be perfect there.
Her father used to sing this carnatic music to her. The coherence of the Sanskrit, the melodious tones of his soft, subtle and soothing voice, a lovely memory she held with her for always.
The veenai was placed by the altar. She was to start classes that very evening, with Mrs Ganesh by her side, watching her pluck every string. The veenai looked beautiful, with intricate carvings and its dark wood glistening by the altar. Jani could see her grandmother playing it. She felt it intrusive to be playing her instrument. But Mrs Ganesh had insisted she do so. And Jani, once again, could not question that. It took a great deal of pain to acquire the veenai, much squabbling between Mrs Ganesh and her siblings.
But Mrs Ganesh always did get away with everything.
*
Someone was trying to break down the door. It was probably the maid, Maria. She used to watch everything but she never dared to intervene. Yet now, she banged the door hysterically. Jani supposed the red that had seeped from under the door scared her.
*
After several months, she had her graduation ceremony, her arengetram. She knew all there was to carnatic music, she was skilled, she played with such fluency; her teacher was impressed. And Mrs Ganesh would nod at each pluck, each beat and each rhythm. The music was enchanting and it filled that hollow household with memories of the time her father was there with them. As she sat on the stage and stared at the crowd, she saw no one but Mrs Ganesh. And when she played his song, as a surprise for the crowd, she thought she saw a tear. And when she looked again, it wasn’t there anymore.
It was probably just the light.
*
The door was going to come down any moment now. She should just get it over with. There was no turning back.
*
And then he came.
Yes, him.
He was just a few years older. And she was his teacher. She had grown so skilled with the veenai that she could now teach. Oh how she loved their sessions together.
He was the son of a distant uncle -- tall, dark, with a kind smile. Just like her Appa.
She would often stare at them both, at him and then at her father’s portrait. His name was Krishna too. Just like the Krishna that came to help the Pandavas. Such a similar smile to Appa’s, maybe this Krishna was a reincarnation of her father?
She was 18 and in love.
And there were times when Mrs Ganesh wasn’t around and he’d lean over and give her a peck on her cheek. And also times when she’d just listen to him play. It was like her father singing to her again only this time it was different. Krishna was playing to her. They’d play together, their own little way of elapsing into their own little world. Times when his fingers would brush hers when she thought him how to pluck at the strings, when their fingers would glide over the instrument together.
And Mrs Ganesh had come in during one of those times. And the glint in her eyes and colour on her face only told Jani one thing.
*
This little run-in had occurred just two weeks ago. Krishna never came back for classes. Jani never heard from him again. She didn’t know how to contact him, they had never thought about it until then.
But something had happened that night. And Jani knew Krishna wasn’t going to come back. She knew like with all the other good things in her life, nothing was going to change unless she made things change.
Every night, without fail, after her bath, Mrs Ganesh would descend from her room upstairs to the altar. She would sit by the altar and meditate, with her feet in the lotus position, her eyes closed.
She was a picture of perfection.
So was the veenai, all delicate and intrinsic and hard.
Jani looked down below at the whimpering figure. She could barely recognise her now. The milky white face was drenched in red. Her silky straight black hair, matted with more red and her light pink nightgown splattered with more of that red. Those almond eyes, she could barely tell what shape they were now.
Any moment now, Maria was going to come right in.
“This…” she whispered, while raising the veenai again one last time, “This is for Krishna,”
The crash sounded just as the door burst open. Maria screamed at the sight in front of her, just as Jani expected her to. But she wasn’t alone, the neighbours were there too, Mr and Mrs Sharidan. And they looked nauseated, probably from the sight of all that red.
Slowly, Jani put the veenai down. Odd, it felt heavy now. It was strangely light seconds ago. And relief overwhelmed her.
A sense of free will.
“S-s-s-stay there Jani…” stammered Mr Sharidan, while pushing Mrs Sharidan away and out of sight of the gruesome figure on the floor, lying in all the red.
“Okay,” said Jani obediently. And she stayed there, watching Maria sob endlessly and looked indifferent as the blood streamed out into the hall. She stared at the mess in front of her, the portrait of Krishna. Where are you, Krishna?
She felt free.
And she looked on at the body as the police came and took her away, cuffs and all.
She was free.
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