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If it was not for the wooden ladder, the old tabla set wouldn’t have been discovered
for another generation. The layers of dust over it stood testimony to the time it settled
there without any human intervention. When Suni’s groping hands accidentally
thumped on the somewhat sagging leather, it cried out a dull thud, and gave out a
cloud of smoke, like the past waking up from a deep sleep.
Suni sneezed a couple of times that threatened to push the ladder off-balance, set
precariously on the edge of the shelf above. It touched slightly on the edge of the
cemented slab, and with every move, grated a bit of the cement off the surface
compromising the grip. Suni had other things to worry about and account for. Dusting
her hand disdainfully against her flowing skirt, she stretched her hand as far as it
could and began to feel for the tabla set. Her hand moved gingerly against the rotund
surface, feeling the strips of leather that ran across as it disappear under the surface.
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The hand then stumbled upon the two-ringed cushion padding underneath, where
the two tablas perched upon all these years, like two fat men.
“Baba, look what I found. It’s a …?” A sneeze muffled her words.
“Whatever it’s, don’t bring it down. As it’s it, you have given me a generous washing
with dust.” Baba on the other hand was drowned in a book that fell from the
shelf above, another discovery of Suni. It was in tatters, with bookworms making a
meal of most of the pages. Baba’s wrinkled fingers flipped through the pages, the
footnotes on the pages in faded ink reminded him that the book demanded his
attention at some point in the past. The underlines under some of the passages tried
to pull him back to the time and to the purpose of it all. Suni’s excited voice came in
the way of his drifting mind again.
“Baba! Will you please leave your book aside. I need a hand here.”
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The two sneezed in copious amounts, with the dust that unsettled as they focussed
on bringing the tablas down from hibernation.
There it was, the bayan and the dayan, the left and the right drum filtering
through the film of dust and time and meeting Baba’s eyes.
“Who played these? Didn’t know it existed in our house.” She drummed the
instrument a couple of times rather clumsily, more to shake off the dust than to play
- It resulted in more sneezing.
“Stop that Suni, will you? Wipe it with a wet cloth if you have to or keep it aside.
Don’t fool around with it.” She wasn’t going to let the dust settle back on it again.
Suni eyes fell on the name scribbled over the side of the bigger one. ‘Pulin’ it read
with a date that had smudged to just show the century. Further scrutiny didn’t reveal
any more information.
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“That’s grandfathers. He played the thing?” Suni asked her Baba, thumping the tabla
again to bring him back from his own thoughts.
“Yes!” He paused. “Then I inherited it from him. Got it as a gift on my 10th birthday.
Or was it 15. I don’t remember. The date on it was the day he gave it to me.
He smiled faintly at that.
“By the way, those are not a ‘thing.” He continued. “It’s pure sheesham wood body,
with, would you believe, goat skin membrane..”
“So you do know how to play it?” Suni cut him short. Her excitement was going up a
notch higher.
She was beginning to take pride in the musical background of her family, however
tenacious it may have been. She learnt from someone that music runs in the blood
and by that logic, it flowed in her blood too, to what degree she didn’t know and was
curious to find out.
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“I wasn’t as good as my father. What did you think accounts for my flat fingers.”
Wiping the instrument clean, she thrust it towards her father, filling her eyes with
expectation and the air with anticipation. He stiffened at the sudden responsibility
thrust on him. Unwittingly, he clutched tightly to the book he was holding for support,
to preoccupy his fingers in other things. Suni noticed the shake of his hands. She
waited, pleading with her eyes, knowing that he would eventually relent. He looked
around nervously, as if making sure no one was there to witness his performance.
Then those eager faces came floating into his memory. The scene began to unfold
as if the moment recoded itself and decided to play again.
Seated in rows and rows of chairs going back to as far as his eyes could see, the
crowd waited in deathlike silence. The dimmed light in the audience section
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somewhat restricted the view while the lights that fell on the stage made him stand
out starkly. How he wished it was the other way round. The faces, he felt pressed
against him, breathing right into him in unison, choking him into nervousness. After a
while he couldn’t see anyone but only felt the heat creeping up his body. His ears felt
like burning charcoal and his hands stiffened like they were cast in plaster. It was his
first solo performance on the stage; amongst the audience was his father and other
great maestros, well known figures in the town. He had read their names in news-
articles on classical music, seen their faces in cassette covers and heard their
names uttered with certain reverence by his fellow-students in the music circle.
Amongst them, his father’s face jumping, staring at him from the front row with
anticipation only managed to make matters worse for him. He still remembered how
drained he felt when the curtains had drawn, bringing an end to his ordeal. The
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glaring light that fell on him, seared his body and tormented his soul. Hours and
hours of rehearsal, grinding, toiling hard till his fingers felt numb and seemed
detached from his body just didn’t come to his rescue that day. They stood there
muted, abandoning him at the critical time, laughing at his poor state. Not that he
didn’t make any attempt, for he had heard his father repeatedly talk about allowing
muscle memory and instinct take over. He did leave it to those two but no one came
to his rescue. The hand didn’t move, the muscle remembered none, the brain
stopped working, it was only his heart that seemed to be working overtime.
From the din of voices in his head he heard his father’s from the audience,
“C’mon Bhutu, remember the lessons. Breathe easy, I am there for you.” The voice
appeared to come from a distance, and bounced off his head, echoing. Obviously,
his father didn’t realise that his presence there, judging his move, scrutinising his
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hands, was the problem. He remembered giving up the struggle after a while and let
time decide what it wanted to do. The curtain that slowly descended in front of him
took ages to block out the tormentors from his view, until he was finally left alone.
The lights then dimmed on him while it illuminated the audience. He was grateful
for the thick curtain, and the length that covered him from head to toe. He
remembered the hand landing on his shoulder, and knew it to be his father’s from the
sheer weight. It bowed him down a notch lower, when words that came out of his
father saved him from drowning that day.
“It’s over Bhutu. Now you may relax. Let’s go home and we will practice harder this
time. I failed you, you didn’t.” Those words shifted the blame but it did nothing to un-
burden the sense of shame and guilt from his shoulder. He carried it all the time and
thought he had managed to push it deep into the shelf where no one would find it.
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Had managed that until now when his daughter found it and placed it in front of him.
The onrush of old memories made him freeze again. His hands felt heavy again,
paralysed.
“It’s ok Baba. If you don’t feel like playing now, I can keep it aside. I understand it’s a
little too dusty to touch now.” Those words from his daughter reminded him of what
his father had said more than a decade back. He felt a gentle breeze sweep in from
the window and blow away the heat. Those comforting words, when his father spoke
had come down on him like a hammer of shame but this time it comforted him. This
time, he was failing none.
“That won’t be necessary Suni. If you clean it any further, I am afraid the leather
would wear off. Get me a hammer…the wooden one. I’ll have to tune it before it
makes any sensible sound.” Looking at it, he remembered it was the same set of
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tabla that was teasing him to play that day. This time, withered with age, it seemed to
lie unassumingly, but inviting still. He thumped at it a little to produce ‘ta ta dhai dhai’ ,
his hand a little incongruous on the instrument, tried to familiarise itself with the
leathery texture. The rhythmic sound delighted Suni, making her tap her foot
instinctively on the floor. Her naked feet slapping on the floor complimented the dull
thud of the tabla. The dread of the day, a piece from the past tried to inch back to his
consciousness to stop him from crossing that mental barrier.
“Oh why did you stop so soon Baba! It sounded great.” Encouraged, he played a
longer phrase he learnt for that fateful performance. It somehow didn’t come out
muffled like it had that day, when the tabla looked like two lifeless souls, hard as
rocks in heart and spirit breaking his own. Suni couldn’t suppress her excitement as
he stopped again to catch her reaction.
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“Uff..dont’ stop na Baba. Let your hands dance on the tabla.” She sounded uncannily
like his father did during rehearsals.
“Do one thing Suni.” He gave her a simple beat to tap with her feet. “And don’t miss
the tempo. Tempo maney, the speed of your tapping. Got it?”
Nodding her head enthusiastically, she wasted no time in following the instructions.
Taking cue from the beat, he started belting out rhythms, first slowly, then gaining
confidence, he increased the pace and the complexity of the beats. The hands
started to dance again, the muscles relaxed with every strike, remembering what it
had forgotten that day. His heard his father words echo in his head, “It’s all about
muscle memory son. Don’t think. Thinking is stopping. Feel it, get lost in it and
express yourself fully. There’s nothing to hold back, nothing to remember and
nothing to forget.”
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His father’s words were ringing true in his head now. As the hand increased pace,
the fingers began to disappear, only to reappear again. It was like a magician
performing a trick. He could see himself on the stage again facing the audience. The
curtains drawn, the audience in rapt attention, and the lights falling on him. He saw
his father amidst them, tapping his feet and following the rhythm with his dancing
eyebrows. Though he was seated, he felt like he was dancing, the rhythm taking
over his body and soul. He was again taking the stage for the first time.
When he stopped, Suni couldn’t stop clapping.
“Baba, I want to play like you do. You have to teach me.” Suni started jumping up
and down as if the beat of the tabla was still playing. It was in her mind.
“It takes years and years of practice. Are you…”
She cut him short. “I know all that. I’ll practice it everyday.”
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“Your hands will also have to take a lot of beating, probably more than the tabla
would. I will lose its softness.” He knew it wouldn’t deter her one bit. He already felt
the genes of a musician flowing in her.
She only stared back at him with a mock-temper.
“Ok. In that case, we will need to find a new place to keep it.” He smiled and bowed
ever so slightly.
