The door closed behind our backs softly. “There are non-believers,” a woman whisper-reasoned, making the basement-gathering sound like a cult-meet. The room was lush with rose petals on the floor and kumkum dust in the air.
“Come, fly with me,” thirty years back, Vasu had coaxed Kamakshi and me, to pile on to the pillion of his dad-our uncle’s Bajaj Chetak. “Close your eyes; Nagi, sing Mokshamu,” he commanded. Our pattu pavadai up our knees, pressed like fresh gulab jamuns against each other, the possibility of a wedding between Vasu and one of us ripe. Mokshamu was chopped into pieces by the more exciting chorus-brr that we believed propelled us on the backs of the static scooter.
Years later Amma, Chithi and Athai mounted Vasu’s pillion to Badrinath, Kedarnath and Kashi, to land them right on the threshold of the temples. “In the blink of an eye,” they felt stunned by their nephew’s tantric gift. By then, he was entitled a Guru and was pulling Lingams out of his mouth and levitating live in front of Bhakts.
“Sing,” Amma mouthed, as Vasu sounded the hand bell. I missed Kamakshi- she was the one who hi regulated our classes, maintained our notebooks, and chosen Kritis for us to learn.
Closing my eyes, I skipped the prelude and launched into the pallavi of Mokshamu.Would he at least ask about Kamakshi?
Past the pallavi, when I felt like a hundred kilos and all the spectators’ gazes crawled down my
back, I opened my eyes, hoping to meet his’. But they were still downcast. He raised only his
right palm. As a hush fell, Amma joined hers, ready to receive his blessing. “Stop,” he said
curtly, stood up and stalked off, his feet squeaking over the faux-tiger skin floor cushion by the
loudest.
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