What music could not do, calculations did. Mahesh Subhramanium met his fate some fifteen years back when on his weekly visit to his violin teacher, he had, one sultry evening met the oft-referred-to niece, the sublime Geeta Vasudevan. She was already making a name for herself in performances and recordings and he had hardly begun. The idea at his family, though, was that he was gifted. Geeta was nine years older to him, agile and compassionate. She could make strings sing to her whims. Young Mahesh, reserved and methodical, had impressed her with his ability to pick up music with little effort. Natural, she believed.
Today, the brassy Subhramanium name-plate shines out of the beige wall in contrast to the coffee coloured door frame. Families, society, career -- nothing had mattered then. Family, society, career -- nothing mattered now. At forty, Mahesh could not have asked for more. His wife's privileges allowed him alliances that he was careful to keep in brazen trunks of selective memory. As far as time was concerned, tidings had taken over. Name was an addiction for Geeta, where namelessness remained a gift for her husband.
Fifteen years back Mahesh had astutely taken this call. He gave up the possibilities of the seven notes of music to pursue the unending possibilities that was called life. Last month when he settled with his usual solitary coffee in his balcony overlooking the river, he recalled the proposal. It had come from his Sir, an unusual one. Geeta had stopped all kinds of relationship with her violin and promised to continue were she not permitted to marry Mahesh. It was all going to their plan. Their youthful evenings, fine-tuned by desire, formed an uneven friendship of mutual consent. Dialogues weren't of much importance where their fingers did all the talking. Mahesh was having the time of his life and wanted it to continue. He agreed on one condition. That she should never ask him to continue music. Let her remain obliged for a lifetime. They were a happy couple, alive in their intimate sorrows and forgetful of the delicious past, with one winning empires without roots whilst the other footed it firmly.
Their daughter, was closer to Mahesh. Geeta V Subhramanium was a household name, yet never enough at her own. As Subhalakshmi grew up, renowned in her own rights as a choreographer in the Tamil filmdom, SS, as she was popularly called, entered a sassy affair too many. Till one night when over dinner, she had an engaged discussion with her parents. 'If you wish, I could return to classical performances only.' Geeta had joined them. Though very happy, they were completely unsure of what the conditions would apply. 'I am going to marry Iqbal Khurshid. The percussionist.' The five empty chairs of the eight-seater dining table evoked rusting melodies.
Geeta was following Iqbal's career very closely. His uncle, Akbar, was the only non-Hindu man who had made it to her ensemble, all the way from her bed. Mahesh was following Iqbal's career very closely. To date, Fatima, his mother, remained his one lasting contact, under the blanket. Neither him, nor Geeta could express their individual anxiety. Mahesh recalled how Fatima was convinced that Iqbal was his child and went to the extent of being willing to change her religion if he would give their son his legacy. His silence bought a lot of happiness, as always.
The wedding was one of the first of its kind -- the groom was to take the bride's family name. Fatima's feelings were coffined couple of months before the wedding, while Akbar took up the sudden opportunity offered to him from Baroda. What music could not give Mahesh, calculations always did. The newspapers covered this liberating story as individuals, doing names of the society went on to together engrave one surname as a chapter of contemporary history. They ran it unanimously as "The Subhramanium Saga." Mahesh could not have asked for more. The sound of correct calculation was sweeter than those of perfect notes.
Today, the brassy Subhramanium name-plate shines out of the beige wall in contrast to the coffee coloured door frame. Families, society, career -- nothing had mattered then. Family, society, career -- nothing mattered now. At forty, Mahesh could not have asked for more. His wife's privileges allowed him alliances that he was careful to keep in brazen trunks of selective memory. As far as time was concerned, tidings had taken over. Name was an addiction for Geeta, where namelessness remained a gift for her husband.
Fifteen years back Mahesh had astutely taken this call. He gave up the possibilities of the seven notes of music to pursue the unending possibilities that was called life. Last month when he settled with his usual solitary coffee in his balcony overlooking the river, he recalled the proposal. It had come from his Sir, an unusual one. Geeta had stopped all kinds of relationship with her violin and promised to continue were she not permitted to marry Mahesh. It was all going to their plan. Their youthful evenings, fine-tuned by desire, formed an uneven friendship of mutual consent. Dialogues weren't of much importance where their fingers did all the talking. Mahesh was having the time of his life and wanted it to continue. He agreed on one condition. That she should never ask him to continue music. Let her remain obliged for a lifetime. They were a happy couple, alive in their intimate sorrows and forgetful of the delicious past, with one winning empires without roots whilst the other footed it firmly.
Their daughter, was closer to Mahesh. Geeta V Subhramanium was a household name, yet never enough at her own. As Subhalakshmi grew up, renowned in her own rights as a choreographer in the Tamil filmdom, SS, as she was popularly called, entered a sassy affair too many. Till one night when over dinner, she had an engaged discussion with her parents. 'If you wish, I could return to classical performances only.' Geeta had joined them. Though very happy, they were completely unsure of what the conditions would apply. 'I am going to marry Iqbal Khurshid. The percussionist.' The five empty chairs of the eight-seater dining table evoked rusting melodies.
Geeta was following Iqbal's career very closely. His uncle, Akbar, was the only non-Hindu man who had made it to her ensemble, all the way from her bed. Mahesh was following Iqbal's career very closely. To date, Fatima, his mother, remained his one lasting contact, under the blanket. Neither him, nor Geeta could express their individual anxiety. Mahesh recalled how Fatima was convinced that Iqbal was his child and went to the extent of being willing to change her religion if he would give their son his legacy. His silence bought a lot of happiness, as always.
The wedding was one of the first of its kind -- the groom was to take the bride's family name. Fatima's feelings were coffined couple of months before the wedding, while Akbar took up the sudden opportunity offered to him from Baroda. What music could not give Mahesh, calculations always did. The newspapers covered this liberating story as individuals, doing names of the society went on to together engrave one surname as a chapter of contemporary history. They ran it unanimously as "The Subhramanium Saga." Mahesh could not have asked for more. The sound of correct calculation was sweeter than those of perfect notes.
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