The unfolding of our lives...

Of all our fears, it is the fear of the future - the unknown, that terrifies us the most.

The feeling in the bottom of her stomach wouldn’t go away. She closed her eyes willing the sensations to stop. For if the trembling stopped, so might the foreboding. Yet they kept washing over her in waves. All was not well. She knew it, and yet she didn’t. So she hung precariously between hoping against hope, and the desperate fear that he would never come.

It was here, in the exact same place, eight months ago, that Kaaveri had found herself uncharacteristically in love. Perhaps it was the time of the day. Dusk. When the heat and dust of the gangetic plains mellow down, and the trees, houses, and unpaved roads all soften in this golden afterglow. A monetary hush settles on the city, as the rickshaws, the vendors, and even the street dogs all grow silent and somnolent under the warm haze of the late afternoon sun. It was Kaaveri’s favorite time of the day, her secret escape from the world. She would wait in the cemetery behind her school for him, while, Ghanshyam, her driver waited for her in front of the school. She would tell him that she had to stay back for an extra class after school, and he would never bother to question her since he was quite happy to smoke his bidi and listen to the radio in the car. While she waited, Kaaveri wandered around, reading the headstones. Some were sweet, some matter of fact. “Hellen Jane , 11 Apr 1851 to 06 Jun 1872, Beloved Mother and Wife” “Capt. William Ford Blair “ 02 Nov 18 32 - 29 Apr 1866. Died of Septicemia” Kaaveri liked rummaging through the lives of those who were, it was only when she came across the headstone of someone she knew , that it unnerved her. “Sister Margaret Barnard, 08 Sept 1878 – 15 May 1936. A true servant of Jesus.” Sister Margaret had come from Ireland to join the Loretto order in India, but the searing summers of Lucknow didn’t agree with her. Kaaveri remembered her as the sickly geography teacher who could never get the pronunciation of her name right.

Kaaveri’s family was originally from Benares, but her father had moved to Lucknow along with a retinue of relatives nearly two decades ago. They lived in a sprawling mansion on Havelock road…everyone knew it as the “lal phatak wali haveli” because it had enormous red gates. Her father was a physician to all sorts of important people, including the nuns at her school, who had persuaded her father to send her to Loretto. Her mother had initially resisted the idea of sending her daughter to a Christian school, but when her father explained that it would increase the marriage market value of their daughter, she reluctantly agreed. Since then Kaaveri had discovered that playing the marriage card was often a good way to get her parents to agree to her wishes.

A few houses down, on the same lane, lived the legendary singer Begum Akhtar, known as Akhtaribai at that time. Often in the evenings, she would sing as people gathered in her house. She had a voice that seeped through the pores of the skin, and filled you up. She had recently acted in a few movies, and Kaaveri had secretly snuck out with her friends to watch Naseeb Ka Chakkar. She was completely entranced by the strength and passion of her voice. She begged her parents to let her go to Ahktarabai’s house.
“ Baba, please. I am only going to listen, “she pleaded
“All this is not for respectable people like us,” her father replied sternly.
“But Baba, you know she comes from a really high class family. “
“Kaaveri. Enough.”
“Baba, you know Rukmini’s parents are sending her to Ahktarabi to learn from her. Her mother says it’s good for a girl to know how to sing, have an interest in the arts. It makes her a lady”
Over the course of a few weeks, Kaveeri slowly and steadily worked on her father, who had always been very indulgent towards his only daughter. By the fourth week, her parents had agreed to let Kaaveri train under Akhtarabai, with the caveat that she would never perform in public. So at the age of twelve, Kaveeri started training under Begum Akhtar. Her peers and her mentor soon realized that this was no ordinary voice. It could scale the high notes with ease and explore the low notes with grace. “Your voice is like a stream. Clear and sparkling,” remarked Ahktarabai after one exalting session. She insisted that her young pupil join the Bhatkande University and earn a degree in Hindustani classical music. Another difficult battle with the parents ensued, but in the end even they had to admit to the beauty and wonder of their daughter’s voice. Kaaveri continued to sit in on Begum Akhtar’s evening gatherings, while she mastered the technique of Hindustani music at Bhatkende. Much to her own surprise, she had even been allowed to perform by her parents on a few occasions.

It was her last year in Loretto, her last year in Bhatkende. Perhaps even her last year in Lucknow if she were to get married to that barrister in Calcutta. Kaveeri was unsure what the future had in store. Music became her past, her present, and her future. It was the thread that held everything together. It was the only thing that made sense in a world that was changing, in a country that was churning. There were whispers of discontent, hints of intrigue and rebellion, and the quiet yet unmistakable rise of a brave new world. Kaaveri spent most of her spare time in Ahktabai’s house. She enjoyed not just the music, but the heady mix of art and politics. One such evening, while she listened to Ahktarabai experiment with the verses of a Ghazal, she saw him. Standing in the corner of the room, with his arms crossed, listening intently to the beat of the ghazal. She had felt a similar sensation in her stomach then. It was uncontrollable. A warning of what was to come.