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.