Pundalik Varda

The harmonium breathed its last 'Saa' and the small room fell silent. The man with the tabla slowly covered his instrument's resonant surface. The lady with the hand cymbal delicately cleaned it with her saree pallu. Pallavi and Rucha gulped down some nice cold water, exhausted after two hours of riaaz, vocal practice. Pallavi's gaze drifted towards Vrunda, who was the only one sitting still, her eyes closed in leisure, unwilling to come out of the beautiful trance the melody had brought.

"So... you liked it, Vrunda?"

Vrunda parted her lashes in the calmest possible way and smiled at Pallavi, answering her question without saying a word, scared another utterance would break the beautiful spell.

"Got it! You liked it." Pallavi blushed. "So, do you think you can do the anchoring part for this program?"

Vrunda finally spoke. "I sure can. I want to, in fact. I'm tired of anchoring party events. These bhakti geets, devotional songs, feel really refreshing!"

Pallavi smiled.

"I just have a little request. Do you know this chant, dedicated to Vitthal, by the Warkaris? — 'Pundalika Varada Hari Vitthal..."

Vrunda's eyes sparkled. "Shri Dnyandev Tukaram..."

Both said together, "Pandharinath Maharaj Ki Jai!"

"Yes. I of course know this. I belong to Devachi Alandi, the place of Sant Dnyaneshwar himself."

"Great!" said Pallavi. "I want you to sing these lines after the introduction. This will perfectly create the energetic and devotional ambience for the upcoming songs. We will also place harmonium and tabla beats after each line you sing..."

Vrunda heard nothing after Pallavi asked her to sing. Her chest filled up and her breathing became shallow, almost unnoticeably.

"No!" Vrunda cut Pallavi mid-sentence. "I can't. I mean, I can try, but when I do, you wouldn't want me doing that again, trust me."

Pallavi laughed. "Oh! It's okay, you're not a singer. You don't have to be perfect!"

Vrunda's smile faded a little too suddenly at that. "Right... exactly, I mean. I'm not a singer. Let's think of something else..."

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Practice ended and Vrunda drove back home, a thought running constantly through her mind. On reaching home, she said nothing to her fifteen-year-old daughter, and went straight to the bathroom.

She latched the door from inside, turned on the tap full force, and sat on the bathing stool. Minutes passed and she made no movement. Slowly, her eyes welled up, and she hummed a 'Saa'. The hum turned into a surprising taan, which slowly found itself being shaped into a song sung by the legendary Asha Bhosle herself.

"Me maza harpoon... basle g" Vrunda sang with a rare simplicity.

Her voice carried a soulful emotion many professional singers lacked. Her vulnerable, sometimes imperfect melodies made the song pleasant in a way technique alone could not. At its attainment, she finally let herself cry.

A tiny voice inside her shouted at the inconsiderate statements that Pallavi, and many others, had made over the years, ever since she quit singing as a teenager, when singing had been her identity. A small mess-up during a live performance had made her stop abruptly. The audience of hundreds had their eyes fixed on her. And for the first time, she became conscious of her voice, her presence, the way she held the mic, and the way her legs had uncontrollably started shaking. She did not have enough air in her lungs to continue singing, and her lips protested against forming sensible words too. She had to get off the stage mid-performance, an embarrassment she managed to forget over the years, but her nervous system remembered.