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Like a butterfly – flitting, dancing and gliding glibly from flower to flower – collecting the finest honey- it was here now and gone the next second. Was it for real or was it an illusion? Rangaswami wondered as he watched transfixed lost in the gentle drone as her fingers seemed to rub against the pakkasaranis ever so gently. From his vantage position, he could now see the Veena being put away as the Friday’s session ended. He could hear a bustle of voices as the elite audience vied with each other to approach her and to speak a few words to her. To some, the old lady merely bestowed a glance of recognition, to others she spoke a few chosen words and to a few a nod of acknowledgement of their presence. Oh! How he longed to be one among them.

As he walked away in a stupor, he wondered when and how this obsession started. Providence caused him to listen in on one of her familial sessions under the jasmine creeper. The memory of that unforgettable day was still fresh in his mind. As she invoked the Goddess Saraswati, the sounds of the raga Vegavahini the she played on her veena had pervaded the garden. Since then several years had passed.Time had cast its dark shadows on her. Her cheeks were now gaunt and emaciated and there were few remnants of the rich beautiful and immensely talented devadasi musician Kamalammal to be seen in her. But the music remained as sprightly and eternal as the muse in all her pristine glory. It was her music that set her apart. Even the rich, the famous and the conservative made exceptions when it came to her.

Until the day he heard her music, he had considered his artisanship a mere drudgery – a craft he had to pursue to make ends meet. But her music provided a whole new dimension to his craft of veena-making. From that fateful day, it transformed him from a lowly maker of musical instruments to a creator–supreme, an emperor partaking of the finest of life in all its richness. Every piece of wood that he polished now reminded him of the lovely notes that emanated from her veena in his court. Slowly he walked away coming back to his senses. No more was he a king and she his court musician. He remained a poor maker of instruments and she an old fading devadasi musician.

He walked back to his tiny abode a couple of alleys away.He entered his room and glanced at the unfinished masterpiece – his labor of love. He had started working on it several years ago when his ears chanced upon that divine music. He would pour out all his craft and make one masterpiece of an instrument, for her. Nothing else seemed to matter compared to this obsession of his. This was meant to be his only calling in life.

He had hunted the finest specimen of jackfruit trees, sandalwood, ivory, and even precious stones for ornamentions. He inspected it proudly and tenderly, like a mother viewing her newborn infant – a creation fashioned out of blood and flesh.The time had now come for it to go to its rightful owner. Some woodwork on the yali and he was almost there. The next minute his euphoria gave way to doubt. What if she casts him and his token of appreciation aside as yet another gaudy apparition from an uncouth fool? She was known for her caustic tongue and bouts of sarcasm. Another train of thought rushed in to trounce this one.No. He would somehow convince her and persuade her to play on his instrument for a day .Even an hour would do – Yes, he would be content with just one song.

His pre-appointed day was drawing near. Just 4 days remained until the next Friday. He went and bought for himself a clean pair of clothes – a simple cotton dhoti and a shirt. He opened his pouch and counted the coins he had so carefully accumulated. He would buy a gold chain to make himself presentable and then some red paint for the Yali’s face and he was all ready for her. Rangaswami scoured the shops and bought the right shade of paint. He then looked at a small ivory piece – that seemed to belong right into her instrument. He glanced at the price. Buying it would mean that he had to go without his gold chain. He had walked this far – he would not count the last few steps by pinching a few pennies. The moment of weakness had passed. He bought the ivory ornament, came home, and put the finishing touches on his masterpiece.

As he completed it, tears of joy streamed from his eyes. He was in a state of spiritual exhaustion. She, his muse would play that wonderful sublime on the instrument, and he would watch her. A thousand visuals crossed his mind’s eye – her dextrous hands tuning the instrument, her eyes resting on the ivory ornament pausing a moment to admire it as she played the next song. What would catch her eye first? What would she say? He was delirious all night and could not sleep.

The next day he rose early and at the preappointed hour, he took the veena and testily approached her house. All he saw was an eerie silence. Upon enquiry he was told that Kamalam had died in her sleep. All her admirers - the rich and the famous, the musicians, and the aristocrats everyone had deserted her. Except her family no one was to be seen. He sat collapsed on the road and kept looking at his veena and at the door of her house staring emptily into the window where the music had once emanated from. He felt the emptiness sink into him-Everything seemed to be empty - the house, the window and his heart and soul.

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