Music Teacher

Days like these, Sita cursed the stubbornness of men, South Indian men most of all, and her husband in particular.

“He’s a music teacher, Tipu!”

“And so what? He was shivering and pale as rice when he walked in here – if it wasn’t for the fact that there are empty rooms, I would have sent him and that autorickshaw off on their own dust. I tell you, Sita – there’s something wrong with that man. He’s sick somehow. No, no – my boy is not going anywhere near that man.”

Tipu flicked off the switch on his desk lamp, and got up from behind the broad mahogany desk from which he rules the Hotel New Star.

“Now please, we’ve had a hard day. I want to go to bed, and tomorrow we will have to see about how to make sense from feeding one guest in the whole hotel.”

Sita glared at him from the doorway to the office, stomped her feet lightly and turned away with an exasperated sigh. Her husband’s pre-bedtime rituals involve a hot cup of tea, two cream crackers, the cricket section of the newspaper, followed by a betel leave to chew on. Little things that she had been dutifully and now almost subconsciously doing each night. A constant chore repeated over the years that tonight, of all nights, seemed to gall her.

That odious man – a music teacher, a real one, under their roof, right now, and all he was concerned about was the economics of the hotel’s food supply.

She went to the kitchen in a huff, passing the now dark front lobby – and as she has done for the past ten years, glanced over to make sure that all is well in the broad veranda. Raised wooden floors were dotted with pleasingly comfortable wooden chairs, with some old cushions – the potted plants strategically hid corners that showed the age of this little inn. The yellow (turning brown) plastic stencil of “Welcome” was still plastered on the wall behind the registration desk, next to the Ganesh statue and the 15-year-old fax machine. The day’s newspapers were put away, the registration book under the lockbox and the money cleaned out. Keys were locked away and ashtrays were emptied. In the distant moonlight Sita could see the dog sleeping in the dirt in the frontyard. All was where it should be, in its proper place.

In the kitchen, she started clanging the kettle around. She wrenched the tap on with a bit more force than necessary. Slammed the lid on the kettle a bit, thumped the tin of tea leaves on the table with a little sound of disgust.

She sat at the table in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. She looked around at her kitchen, where she is the mistress of her own space, and pondered. She had once taken care of a last-minute busload of tourists with one hour’s notice, delivering eight meals each for thirty-five people over four days, with not a single extra hand to help her. Surely she can resolve this problem.

Steam spewed towards the ceiling, chasing away a watching gecko. Sita stared into space, uncaring and unhearing as the lid of the kettle rattled, her mind turning this way and that as the water boiled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“A music teacher,” Tipu snorted in disgust, as he worked his way into his pyjamas. Too many years of the inn-keeping business, and the victim of an overachiever wife, has resulted in a girth that is slightly wider than healthy, but one could still see the strong shoulders and bulging biceps of a man who used to work the fields.

It’s not that Tipu has anything against music – why would he, when he was known in the village as the one to call on if there was a need for a quick singalong for a country song, when he first fell in love with his wife watching her playing a flute sitting on top of a buffalo.

It was that this man, this sick, white man, was not suitable for his son to learn music from.

When strangers walked in to ask for a room, Tipu went by his gut as to whether this person was going to cause trouble. Whether he was on the run from something, whether he was holidaying, on business, whether he would likely skip out on the room bill.

This was second nature to him, no different than when a gazelle knows when the air suddenly turns rancid with the smell of lion. Tipu has learned not to question his gut. It was not a paranoid one, but it hasn’t steered him wrong when it told him to be cautious.

The white man, when he walked in, was shaking and shiny with sweat. He smelt of vomit, and looked even worse. He was not intoxicated, that much was clear by his gait. But neither was he walking with the steady pace of a man with a purpose (such as looking for the toilet to throw up his insides), nor were his eyes looking at the person of current importance (like Tipu, who was going to collect his money up front in case anything goes wrong). His ice-blue eyes darted left and right, focusing on nothing but skimming over everything. His back was hunched, fists clenched, shoulders lightly shaking, nose running – he wore the look of a man beaten by his demons, beaten by life.

Tipu gave him a room, and collected his money. It was slow season, he wasn’t going to turn business away unnecessarily. But something was wrong with this man, and his son was not going anywhere near him until Tipu can figure out what is going on.

“Where is that infernal woman… a man can’t even get his tea, but has to put up with constant nagging..” he muttered, as he crawled into bed.

His wife walked in as if on cue, carrying a mug of tea on a tray with his regular nighttime comforts. She didn’t look him in the eye, and she was quiet about the fact that his day clothes were haphazardly on the floor.

Immediately suspicious, he made an initial foray to pre-empt any problems.

“Sita, everything okay outside?”

“M-hm.”

“How are we looking for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

“Ready. It is only one guest. We’ll be fine.”

“I think he would be hungry tomorrow, after how he looked today.”

“Mm.”

This is not good, he thought. She is never this quiet, never passes up an opportunity to comment on how someone looks. Before he could pursue further, however, she had changed and crawled into bed herself.

“Sleep well, husband. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

Her eyes shut, her back turned, and Tipu knew the conversation was over. This was his cue, however, to be on the lookout tomorrow… his wife was up to something.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Your name is David?”

Tom was incredulous. This dark little child in the middle of a yellow-dirt-red-saris-green-hill world, was named something as normal, as boring as David?

“Yes. David Michael, to be exact, sir.”

Tom looked closely at the boy. He was no different from when he first saw him, two bright eyes burning from a dark face, an irrepressible grin playing at the corners of his mouth, giving the impression of someone who has in him a fountain of laughs. David Michael, he thought. It seemed a woefully inadequate name for a face as alive as this, in a land as opulent as this.

David was a little dusty from the wind today… his time spent with the buffaloes was fun, but he was annoyed that they pawed the sand in his direction, especially when he was standing downwind. Really, quite inconsiderate. He itched in the most awkward places now, and he had to make nice to this strange white man.

“Sir, excuse me but I have to go..”

“But could you tell me where I may have my breakfast?”

David sighed. But of course he would have to go past the breakfast room anyway to wash himself by the watertank. “Come with me, please, sir.” One thing his mother taught him, was unfailingly good manners.

They walked past the laborers scrubbing the huge pots flanking the front reception area. Business was slow, but hands must still be kept busy. David’s mother believed strongly in the merits of hard work and the evils of idleness.

Tom looked over at the little black head bobbing next to him, as the boy walked with a slight bounce to his step. Small talk, to a small boy, seemed as unnatural to him as playing on an electric keyboard. But he was still intrigued. Something about this boy reached out to him, pulled him into the hotel when he was this close to the edge of insanity, and seemed to beckon for questions to be asked.

“David, do…,” he choked. No, that started wrong. “I mean, what was that tune you were whistling yesterday?”

“Yesterday? Oh, when you arrived. Fur Elise, of course,” he responded. With a slight tilt of his eyebrows, as if incredulous that a white man, of all people, didn’t know that piece of classic. “You know, that famous Beethoven piece?”

“Yes, yes, I know it well. Did you hear it on the radio?”

“No.”

“Was it performed on TV?”

“No.”

“Did your parents take you to a concert?”

David shook his head.

Tom was beyond himself now – it was critical, no - crucial to him, to find out why and how this little boy in the middle of one of the poorest parts of India, so far from anything modern or western, was able to learn Beethoven.

“How did you know of it then? Tell me, David.”

“I learned it.”

It never entered his thoughts that perhaps David’s parents were educated and worldly; nor did it occur to him that the boy’s polished speech was a clear hint; all this was besides the point. The only thing that mattered, was to find out how, and why, this boy was able to whistle this tune, this particular refrain, at his lowest and bleakest moment. It did not matter that this could have been a strange coincidence – the meaning behind Fur Elise, to Tom, was of such weight that it obliviated any rational explanations.

“Who did you learn it from? When? Tell me, David.” He had stopped walking. His eyes looked at David, who also stopped. Tears were starting to form at the corners of his eyes, and his face took on the tight and hunted look of a man looking over an edge of a long drop. David took a short half-step back, now worried that he was escorting a crazy man to his mother.

“I-I-learned-it-from-the-schoolteacher-when-we-were-on-school-holiday.” He breathed it out in a stammering rush, frightened by the intensity of Tom’s look.

“Do you know what it was about? What the music is about? Did this village schoolteacher tell you?” Tom took a step forward in his urgency and gripped the boy’s arms, shaking him lightly with the tremors in his own hands. “Do you feel the love in the music? It’s not just a fun tune, not a catchy thing to whistle, do you not see? So much more to this, so much more….”

David cried out, in fear and pain. He saw tears running down the older man’s cheeks, and he was more frightened of the look on that haggard face, than of any pain that he felt in his arms.

That childish cry penetrated through Tom’s fog of painful desperation. He realized his grip was painful, his tone was harsh.

“I’m sorry, David.. David!”

The boy had ran away to the kitchen, leaving Tom on his own in the breakfast courtyard.

“Sir! Mr McCarthy!”

Tom turned around, still bewildered and lost, to see Sita bearing down on him with all the military bearing a sari-wrapped woman with jingling bangles could have.

“What seems to be the matter, sir? Has my son done anything to upset you?” Her tone was sharp, more so her eyes. It was clear she thought that what just happened was not of her son’s doing.

“No, I..”

“Sir, children don’t know the ways of adults. We teach them as well as we can. Are you on your way to breakfast?”

The worm was still in his brain, tunneling away, eating up all sense of propriety and reason. “I was asking him about Fur Elise…”

“Yes, I saw that. I am not clear why this music is of such importance that you could upset a little boy.”

Tom swallowed. The words died. He didn’t know where to start to answer her questions, he didn’t know how. “There is a reason… that music means a lot to me. “

“This way to breakfast then, Sir. You can tell me all about it over a cup of tea.”

Wood and Wind (I)

Tom McCarthy has always been one of the crowd. It didn't matter that his was the only pale face among the glistening dark skins of the South Indians, or that he was about a milk urn's worth taller than the tallest oily black head on the streets of Bangalore. Somehow, he still walked with a slight slouch, with a slow shuffle, and the distracted, hunted look of a man that did not want to be seen or found.

He wasn't being hunted or watched by anyone, not really. But Tom left America to be far away from people and memories that hurt him, so in this strange country that has wormed its way into his heart to become his new home, he just didn't want to be reminded in any way that he was different, that he didn't belong. And for the last few years, he even fooled himself into thinking he had succeeded.

Tom learned to speak Tamil. Enough that he could rent a flat off the main thoroughfare that led to MG Road, enough to convince the landlord that he wouldn't cause any trouble by hanging a sign out the window of the second floor flat that said, "Forte Music School - Certified Professional Instructors!"

First the neighbours dropped in. You teach music, sir? they would ask, hesitantly and slightly deferential. Tom would welcome them with overwhelming hospitality, trying just a bit too hard to break the ice, coming on just a bit too strong. But they were won over when he played his flute, the music reminding them of the green hills and verdant fields beyond the smog of Bangalore. Their feet would gently tap in rhythm, the corners of their lips tilted into slight smiles, and all would be transported by Tom's gift.

Word spread and soon the affluent residents of the area sent their children to Tom's school, hoping that by picking up a western instrument, it would also mean they would pick up a western future. It mattered not that the kids may hate music - and Tom had thought he could somehow open their ears and eyes. For three long years he tried - and in some ways, he may have succeeded.

From his little flat overlooking the main road, one snotty rich kid after another walked out with the magic of Tom's music still ringing in their ears, some even with glistening eyes on the days that Tom poured his heart and soul into his flute. It was rewarding, it paid the bills, and Tom even dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, this was where he belonged after all.

Until one day, Tom woke up with a cold cramp in his gut. Something was not right today, he felt. There was no warm forehead or chapped lips, no runny nose or congested chest. But something ill was in the air, he could feel it. Even after his medicinal hot cup of tea, there was a vague discomfort that reminded Tom of the days before he arrived in India - those days of tension, anxiety, worry, and an unexplainable urge for his soul to jump out of his body and run away, leaving his empty shell of a life far, far behind.

When his first music student arrived, Tom was relieved - life could return to normal now. He could resume his routine of teaching little fingers which holes to cover on the flute, how soft to blow into it, how light and constant the stream of air must be, letting the wind from the lips vibrate slowly and creep into the wooden flute, breathing out a plaintive hum. He was anxious to hear that first tone from his student - waiting for that note to permeate the air, and then he would accompany it with a snap of his wrist, a lively piece of high-notes and brisk tempo, chasing away the blues.

The boy's lips covered the mouthpiece, his hands in position. His eyes were intent on the score sheets, his shoulders rose with his first breath. As his lips pursed and cheeks tensed to blow into the flute for the first time, Tom closed his eyes, almost trembling with anticipation, waiting for that first note.

Then he heard the honking of a car. That jarring sound shook him, his eyes snapped open. The honk was followed by someone's yell, overlayed by screeching brakes, then another honk, then engine hisses and clutch shifts. Gravel crunching. Motors rattling. More horns honking. In a panic, Tom looked at his student, to make sure the kid was not too distracted.

He was still playing, his eyes still intent on the score sheets. The little fingers were still moving, the shoulders were still heaving with every breath he took. Yet Tom couldn't hear a note, all that filled his eardrums were the sounds of the highway outside his window.

And that was when Tom knew what that cold cramp from this morning was. It was a foreboding, leading up to this moment. The moment that he knew he had to leave. Had to change. The moment frozen in his memory for years after. The moment that his soul had jumped from his body and ran away, the moment he started to hear traffic but stopped hearing music.

And so Tom told the boy to go home. He packed a bag, locked his door and waved down an autorickshaw. After Tom gave him a sheaf of rupee notes, the man shrugged and drove off with Tom chain-smoking in the back. With every cigarette he smoked, he was further away from the place he could no longer call home.

He wasn't sure where he could go - the sound of traffic seemed stuck in his ears, even when there was no longer any around him. Hours in the autorickshaw had brought him in the direction of the Nandi Hills, but he still imagined there was a motorcade of honking trucks all around. As the buildings got smaller and fields got bigger, Tom's breath kept coming shorter and his hands were damp with cold sweat. Where could he go? What should he do?

How in the name of God was he going to get the sound of music back in his life again? Even the clanging melodies of the most popular Indian pop coming from the driver's transistor radio sounded nothing more like a cacophony of horns and bicycle bells to him.

That old anxiety returned, and was clawing at his insides. Tom looked around in a panic - suddenly feeling nauseaus, suddenly needing to get out. He leapt from the still-moving autorickshaw, headed for the ditch on the side, and retched. The driver scooted to a halt two meters away, and watched dispassionately while Tom vomited out his insides and what little happiness left in him. Tears ran down his cheeks as he shook with helpless sobs.

He collapsed on the ground, thumping down hard on his butt, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked around, and all he saw was swirling yellow dust in the air from a passing vehicle. Feeling about as lost as he could be, he wondered where in the world was north, where could he possibly find his home, his heart, ever again.

As the yellow dust settled and the air cleared, a whistle came from across the street - a piercing sound that penetrated through the fog of Tom's misery. He looked across, and saw him. A young boy was waving at him, he was sitting on the railing of a porch under a sign, "Hotel New Star".

The boy waved again - more of a beckon, than a greeting. Tom got up on his feet. And suddenly realized, the whistle was still going on. As he stood up straighter, he realized what the piercing tune was - the opening refrain to "Fur Elise".

Tom walked towards the whistle like a moth drawn to a flame, as the autorickshaw followed him to park under the awning of the Hotel New Star.

To Be Continued

The Hotel

The Hotel New Star is in the middle of village with no name by a road that leads to everywhere. There are green fields in the back, in the middle of which stands a solitary tree exactly 215 paces from the backdoor. The tree has been there since the time of his great-grandfather's grandfather, where sons and daughters have sat under its shade and gazed on the undulating lines of Nandi hills, like the breasts of a fallen amazon goddess.

Here lives Tipu, who was born in the back of the hotel when the new shoots burst through branches 45 years ago. His mother walked away from the smoking fire to call out to his father “your son is coming”, and Tipu was born into the waiting hands of his aunt the midwife.

Tipu spent his entire life in the Hotel, playing among the green fields held in the embrace of the hills, the sun tinting the air ochre and a hint of sweetness, the sky bluer and the grss greener. Under the Great Tree he met his childhood playmate Sita, who was playing a flute while sitting on top of a buffalo. It went without saying they will be man and wife - it was understood by all. The village nodded approvingly when their son was born 9 months after they wed, a well-formed boy with correct fingers and toes and a distinguished nose the foretold a great future. Their daughter was born after Tipu's father stepped peacefully into the other world - and so they treated her like she bore his spirit, and feted her like a maharanjana.

It was a good family, and they were well-fed by the takings from the hotel and small lots of farming. The Great Tree provided hours of fun for the children, and the Hotel provided enough for all to grow up fat and happy.

These are stories about the Hotel New Star, Tipu and Sita's family, the world around them that stops by once in a while.