Riyaaz

She sang every afternoon. In the dry dusty heat of Delhi. She sang in a tan-colored room. Patterned curtains closed against the sun. Windows open in the hopes of a breeze. She sang to Bhairav and Bhairavi, she cuddled Yaman. She lingered over Khamaj and fancied the Bihaag. But most of all she sang to that shadow that stopped under her window. Every day at 3 PM. A figure right under her window that she could not see. That she spotted only as a shadow cast against the tarmac. That she noticed by chance when reaching for a sheet drying over the rails two weeks ago. That shadow appeared everyday. She would pause in the middle of her riyaaz and quietly tiptoe out to check and then tiptoe back. And resume singing. And when she stopped at 4PM the shadow would be gone. She did not wish to confront. But who can curb a young heart's fantasy? And soon her notes flew from her to that shadow - pure, golden notes carrying her youthful crush, resonant with hours of riyaaz. And now she sang of Krishna playing holi. She described the torment of unrequited love. She wove dreams into taranas. And all the while her heart bloomed. Her voice carrying a sweetness that no teacher could bequeath - that scorched her mother's heart. That scorned the hearts of dry dozing housewives. That burned into the minds of stern old men lounging in front of TVs. It burst through the sleep of slumbering toddlers and beckoned them with foreign urgency. It stirred passion in docile housemaids. It reminded the watchmen of their youthful dreams of glory.

And they all cried STOP! For the love of god STOP!


She was 19. Her name was ....Riyaaz.