...
[ July]
Heeya behaved not so nicely with me this morning. I was disturbed. Maybe also with life.
Midway at lunch, she asked, almost in an accusatory tone. "I don't get it. Why would you even sit down to eat with me if you don't want to talk. You could have had lunch before and I could have had it on my own."
"When someone is hurt, she may not feel like talking." I said softly. Not an act, I was down. Could sense she was looking for a retort. At fourteen, it can just be about winning dialogues. I finished lunch, put my plate down and came back to the table with fruits and ice-cream. Arranged in two bowls for the two of us, put the spoons in and sat down. Pulled my bowl and started having the dessert. She was still at chicken.
"Ok. If you are hurt, why would you want to sit here with me. You could go to the room or do your work and not even be with the person who hurt you. Why are you even here...!"
"I am here because I like being around you.
I like being around you because I love you.
Even when you hurt me, that doesn't change."
She looked up from the plate and for a moment I could see her little girl big eyes. I added - "But beyond a point, if you go on hurting me, and making me sad, I may not be around anymore. Even if I always love you."
...
[August]
Rhea has started training in eastern classical. Riyaz must be done every morning and evening no matter what. She is learning music; and I, the harmonium. She sits across me and the box with folded legs and her frock pulled to cover her knees and her back straight and arched alternately. We sit on the floor and with the air conditioner switched off, as strictly advised by Guruji.
One such evening. We were grappling with a new palta where I was getting the 11-22-33-22-11-77-66-11 algorithm wrong every time during descent. It was 6 pm, I had postponed a meeting to get this done and it was not getting done. I was irritated with myself. She was singing fine though, without aid.
-- 'Rhea please stop fidgeting and sit quiet when doing riyaz. Guruji said sitting still is the first step.'
-- 'Rhea ! You are restless again. Sit apart from the harmonium.'
-- 'RHEA ! move away from the harmonium and stop touching it. This is the LAST time I am telling you.'
-- '...Wait. Do you keep going back there for the little puffs of air that keep blowing in and out of the bellows when I play ?!'
"Yesss Ma !! This is so much fun ! Give me your hand - You try .."
I did. With my right hand, as I blew the bellows with my left. It was fun.
...
[September]
Rhea is learning. "Swarasthan" - placing a note in its right place. "Sa - Griha" - The home which she has to know so well. "Hawa diye haway chhobi anka" - Painting pictures in air with air from the play of breaths. She is learning. How a song is so much more than its notations, how one note trickles into the next, almost unuttered, just as a butterfly is beautiful only with blending of its colours. She is learning. Ten thhats. Their soft and high notes, their ragas and times of day. She is discovering the sudden spookiness of a "komol" Rishabh and subtle magic of a "komol" Nishad when followed by "shudhho" Dhaivat.
We do a blindfolded quiz sometimes. I play 5 or 6 notes, a good mix of Shudhho-Kori-Komol, and she identifies them. This is her favourite part of the everyday riyaz.
"One more, Ma" And I make it a little more complex. Going back and forth. High and low. Soft and sharp.
She keeps eyes tightly shut and listens intently then takes a few seconds and tells me the exact notes almost every time. She gets 8 out of 10 right on a usual day. I am 5 out of 10 on my best days.
There is something she requests between notes. Asks me to play the full sargam a couple of times before launching the next tune and listens in. Sort of resetting her ears and mind, clearing the head. Every time she does that, it reminds me of someone smelling coffee beans before trying out the next fragrance.
I watch with love. She, is learning.
...
[October]
Heeya had promised me a birthday painting this year. I wanted a couple of my favourite things in my favourite colour.
But we had a row and birthday eve saw a black canvas redone many times over and stored angrily away frontside back, upside down. I rechecked at dawn, first thing my birthday morning, before she was up. Was sad, but said nothing to her.
A week later, she picked up that black canvas again, early Sunday morning in the balcony, on the easel, and even before breakfast started to work in a driven sort of way. It started with white streaks, clouds in night sky? No, a white bird. Minutes later, black again. "Where did the bird go?" I asked. "It just died!" Came a loud answer, over her earpod music.
By forenoon, the canvas had a bemused moon. A blood moon, with grey white gossamer clouds floating desultorily.
I liked the moon but wished it were my favourite cream-white-yellow, a full October moon.
There was another painting created in the flow, on the same day. This time some special sunflowers, not all yellow though, not the way I had imagined them to be.
Her gift reflected her mind, but were after all made of my favourite things : the full moon, a sky, some stars, and sunflowers.
...
