Half Song

The crowd is just gathering as I enter the music hall. It’s my six-year-old, Sameer’s, first choir performance. I had to take a half-day off to make it on time. Ravi has already picked up Sameer and is on his way. I check my phone for messages. “We will be there in five minutes,” Ravi’s message says. “I will send Sameer in and park.”

The podium is on one end of the room all the way to the back. I have entered from a door in the front. Next to me is a table full of snacks. I walk towards the sugary treats. I am waffling between a cookie and a cupcake when I hear his voice, deep-rooted, like an oak’s. 

I swing around, my silver toe ring wedging into my Sari. I shake my foot, wrenching my toe out. 

“Is that you, Savitha?” he asks. It is Neil.

For years, I have pictured seeing him again. Maybe I would run into him in a busy airport, maybe spot him on a casual hike up a mountain, or see him in the same aisle at the grocery store. But who would know that the ill-fated rendezvous was to be at my kid’s choir performance? 

I have gone over what I would say to him so many times. My words - carefully chosen, strung together by nonchalance and grace. But as he approaches me, I stand petrified. Above the thump of my heart, I recognize the hum of something familiar. A song rising inside me, our song, the half song. 

The front door opens, and Sameer runs in “Amma,” his shrill voice punctures the awkwardness. I catch a glimpse of Ravi in his car, driving to the garage in the back. 

I pull Sameer’s little frame towards me. “Sameer,” I say. “This is Neil Uncle. Say Hi”

“I know Neil Uncle,” Sameer blurts. “He is Anya’s dad.”

Anya is the new girl in his music class. Sameer has been talking about her. 

Why? How? The questions swarm even as the half song unfurls within me. It begins with a simple play between three notes. Climbing in steps and back again, the notes echo louder and louder inside me. 

“Amma, juice,” Sameer’s voice breaks my reverie. He points at the carton of lemonade on the table.

As I look for a paper cup, I steady my voice. “So, Neil, the last I knew, you were in New York. When did you move to California?” 

“A month ago, for work,” he says. A little girl, Sameer’s age, hurls herself at him. Her braids bound with pink unicorn bands bounce up and down as Neil scoops her up. “This is Anya,” he says and taps her nose.

Sameer and Anya grin at each other. I find the paper cups and pour some juice in one for Sameer. 

“I want juice too,” says Anya, her face curdling into a pout.  

I look towards Neil. Neil nods, and I pour some into another cup for her. 

Come to think of it; it is providence that we have met after all these years at a music event. Music is what we have always shared. 

“Do you still sing?” I blurt? 

“I mostly play the keyboard these days,” Neil says. “I have been helping their choir teacher for the last two weeks,” he adds. “What about you? Are you still singing.”

The half song fights the walls of my throat. It increases in tempo, from three notes to a skillful melange. I savor the sweet melody. “Oh, no, too busy,” I mumble.

I spot Ravi in the back of the room where the performance is to take place. Rows of seats have been arranged, facing the stage. He signals to me to indicate that he has reserved two seats for us in the front. 

Miss. Valerie, the Piano teacher, makes an announcement asking the kids to gather in the green room behind the stage. We are to begin in ten minutes. I usher Sameer into the passageway leading to the green room. Neil follows with Anya. The other kids are already posing for pictures. Sameer and Anya gulp down their juices and join them. 

“How is Priya?” I ask Neil as the adults are told to leave. The name isn’t a dagger anymore, just a stinging paper cut.

“She passed away six months ago,” he says, his voice teetering to a whisper. “Cancer.”

“I ..I am sorry,” I gasp. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s ok,” he shrugs. “Life goes on, I suppose.”

We walk back towards the chairs. A patio door is open, and a draft blows in. I pull the pallu of my Sari over my shoulder. At the podium, Miss Christine is directing the kids into their positions. I hesitate; I don’t know what to say. An ocean lies between us.   

“I have a seat in the back,” Neil breaks the silence. I nod and look for Ravi. The seats are filling fast, but Ravi has one saved for me.  I squeeze in sideways. Ravi hands the evening program to me. The performance is about to start. Inside me, the half song is gushing. The tempo is alive, the notes are sharp. The half song has transformed into a deluge, washing me to the past. 

Fifteen years ago, I learned music from Neil’s mother. Neil and his mother rented an apartment from us. When she couldn’t pay her monthly dues in full, my father came with the idea of letting me become her student. My father never fancied his role as a debt collector. The new arrangement irked my mother to no end, but my father had made up his mind “Money can only buy things,” he said. “But music, music transforms.” 

Neil’s mother was a dedicated teacher, and in us, she found two eager students. Neil had inherited her golden voice, and it turned out, I wasn’t too bad myself. Every Thursday, after classes, I walked from our high school to Neil’s house, and together we practiced. When we enrolled in the same college, Neil and I became a singing sensation. “Neil and Savitha,” the emcee announced as we strode on stage. “Neil and Savitha,” the words echoed in my ears as I sat through my classes. In the last year before we graduated, I began tracing his last name with my finger on my desk. 

In the summer before Neil left for America, New York to study engineering, he took up composing. “Let’s write a song together,” he announced one afternoon, pulling out his keyboard. We spent days picking notes, pruning them. Until suddenly, the days were done, but the song was not. It was time for Neil to leave, and the song was forgotten in the frenzy of packing. While I waved Neil goodbye, the half song stayed wedged in me.

Neil and I had promised to write to each other. At first, our exchange was spirited, then, his emails got sparse. I poured myself into my work to forget the pain, and I counted the days till his next visit. But when Neil came back to visit, he had met Priya. “She studies with me,” he confessed. “Savitha, Priya is like a spring song,” he said. “I am going to marry her.” He held a picture in front of me. Priya’s brown eyes seared into me. 

The next month I said yes to Ravi. He was a doctor in California. We spoke for a week when he came to visit in India. We discussed hobbies and favorite authors. I told him I used to sing, but not anymore. He said he played racquetball in his free time and couldn’t sing at all. At the end of the week, we were engaged, and a month later we were married. 

On the wedding day, before the groom’s party could enter the wedding hall, I locked myself in the bathroom and deleted all the emails between Neil and me. But as I sat beside Ravi in front of the ceremonial fire, mist rising in my eyes, the half song blazed inside me. The cacophony of the wedding drums was loud, but couldn’t drown the familiar crescendo. 

Ravi was a good husband. Over time I got used to my new life. We traveled, bought a house, built a garden in the back. In the spring months, I spent hours on my vegetable patch, pouring water, cajoling the soil to loosen. And even as I bent down to plant that season’s seeds, I couldn’t bury that half song. It appeared unannounced, stayed at whim and continued to play inside me.  

Then, Sameer arrived. Holding him in my hands, feeling his soft skin on my cheeks, running my fingers through the curls on his head filled every remaining crevice of my heart. We were now a family. In the summer we went camping, and in the winter, skiing. I watched with content at Sammer and Ravi shooting hoops in our front yard. But, sometimes, when I was alone in the car, running errands, I found myself humming that same half song. Always ending in the middle. Never concluding. 

The performance starts. The kids sing in unison. When it is Sameer’s turn for his solo part, he misses the notes. He has practiced it so many times, but he still falters. His shoulders fall. He shakes his head and tries again. The audience claps encouragingly. 

After the group bows and exits, Sameer runs towards Ravi and me. His face is still red. “I made a mistake,” he says to me, burying his head in my hands. “But you kept playing,” Ravi consoles him and thumps Sameer’s back gently. “You sang beautifully,” I add.

“Sameeeeeer, Let’s get the chocolate cake,” a voice rings from behind. It is Anya’s. I catch a glimpse of her eyes as she runs to us - deep pools of brown. Sameer forgets all about his mishap and skips behind her to the dessert table. Neil approaches us. 

I turn to Ravi. “Ravi, this is Neil,” I say. “We used to sing together.”

“Hello,” Ravi says and takes Neil’s extended hand. “So you are a musician?”

“Only by night, otherwise just a hardware engineer.” Neil explains.

“Same as me then!” says Ravi. He looks ready to discuss more about work when he is interrupted by a shrill voice. 

“Daddy,” yells Sameer from across the room. He can’t reach the chocolate cake on the table. 

“I will go help him,” Ravis grins and excuses himself. “Nice meeting you, Neil.”

“Daddy!” another voice calls out. It is Anya. She gestures Neil towards her. She wants him to cut her slice of the cake.  

“You should go,” I say.

Neil nods and gives me a half hug. “It was good seeing you, Savitha. Keep singing,” he says.

I breathe, feeling lighter than I have in years. Half or not, it was but a song.

“I will,” I say and watch him walk away.