This is a short story entry for the Artoons writers room.
The prompt is : On woman’s day she gifted herself the future she was told to postpone
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The Raaga of Return
The rosewood case creaked open, its hinges protesting as Meera reached into its hidden depths. Wrapped in worn red satin, the tanpura lay waiting, austere as ever. Her childhood companion, its surface dulled by time and memory.
Her fifty-year-old heart quickened. She drew the tanpura close, tightening the strings, adjusting the pegs with practiced hands. As her fingers brushed the strings, the first trembling notes rose—and, as always, gathered her back into a calm she trusted.
Straightening her starched salwar kameez she drew a steady breath to begin the first alaap. Her phone buzzed. It was a text message from Bhairavi, her younger daughter.
‘Not coming home this weekend. Travelling to Goa… office outing. Cya’
Meera sighed. Bhairavi hadn’t come home in months.
Her gaze settled on a framed photograph—her younger self with her two daughters. At twenty-eight, she already looked worn, grey threading through her hair. Sarangi, her first-born had her face, but Krishnaraj’s build. The man Meera married at her parents’ behest at twenty, believing he would support her music.
The man she longed for each night, crying into sleep—yet who never truly saw her, not in his life, nor in his bed.
Meera placed the tanpura on the mattress and reached for her age-old journal. It was women’s day after all and time for her to pen down her feelings, turmoil, expectations, unfulfilled passions… raw and unfiltered. It was a ritual that she looked forward to.
She blew over the dusty sheen and gently opened the pages…
Each night stretches into eternity,
The moon gone distant
Eyes longing for a mere glimpse
Weren’t you meant to be my constant?
Meera always pined for Krishna, didn’t she?
She had written it on her second Women’s Day after marriage. Each year since, she returned to measure the distance between who she was and who she had become. Within a year of marriage, her musical dreams began to crumble. Krishnaraj was rarely home and kept expenses tight. She continued her riyaaz for a while, but without a guru or opportunities, the discipline slipped away.
Eventually her heart- tender, and full of unspoken desire… gave up. Like the Darbari Kanada raaga, instilling profound inward stillness. Soon Sarangi replaced Vrindavani Sarang and Meera gave herself over to motherhood.
Meera sniffed away tears as she gently turned the brittle pages, the paper cracking softly. Of course, she was aging too.
My heart in tatters
I search its confines,
A festering wound
For you once lived there
Tears streamed down her creased cheeks as the memory returned, with cruel precision. That women’s day broke her open – newly widowed, a six-year-old daughter in tow, and the unbearable truth of Krishnaraj’s hidden life. The other ‘wife’ had died along with him in the accident, leaving behind a 2-month-old infant. That evening as raaga Bhairavi played in the background Meera took the baby in her folds, choosing love over bitterness. She named the little one instantly.
In the quest of giving her daughters a decent upbringing, music took a back seat. Sarangi was now married and settled in the US, while Bhairavi had flown the nest a year ago.
The musical strings were an uncut umbilical cord, still binding her to her passion; five years ago, she returned.
She resigned from her bank job, to the daughters’ utmost chagrin.
Meera’s chapped lips trembled into a smile as she looked at the pages she had filled over the years. It was then that Anay, a musician, entered her life—like a sudden breath, like the note that finally tuned her strings, like sur and taal settling into her bandish. A decade younger, unmarried, he arrived without warning yet felt uncannily, almost dangerously, right.
Anay pursued her through music, relentlessly. Because of him, she was up at 4 a.m. each day for riyaaz, and even performed with him at her first concert two years ago. Since then, accolades and offers had poured in. And, like raaga Malkauns, she turned inward—facing her fears, her age, her right to desire.
In his eyes I find proof of life
My heart a world of chaotic strife
“What will people say?” breathes down my neck
Last year Anay proposed to her… quietly, just like he had settled into her heart and life, he crossed that final threshold. She was terrified, and turned to her daughters.
“This isn’t the time amma… just wait till I have this baby…” Sarangi had blurted.
“Amma, 50 isn’t an age for… Anyways, just wait… at least let me get married. How do I face Anshul’s parents?” Bhairavi had pleaded.
Meera vacillated for almost a year, while Anay remained quietly, patiently at the edges of her life. He steadied her as she faced the demons of her past. With him, she found herself again. Like Desh raaga; nostalgic yet warm, like rain on parched earth.
Meera blushed, setting down her pen.
My silence, for him is a complete language
With him I begin again, I dare to live.
Meera stood in the center of the drawing room, the space finally releasing her. Her beloved tanpura was packed neatly alongside a suitcase holding the future she had chosen. She had made up her mind, going against the tide for the first time. Nothing mattered anymore.
Anay had taught her to love herself. Smiling, she speed-dialed his number.
“Hello? Ready to compose the Meeranay raaga?”
(word count: 900, excluding the title)
Glossary:
- Tanpura: A long-necked Indian string instrument that provides a continuous harmonic drone to support classical singing.
- Raaga: A raaga is a melodic framework in Indian classical music, built on specific notes and patterns to evoke a particular mood or emotion.
- Aalap: An alaap is the slow, improvised introduction of a raaga, where the artist explores its notes and mood without rhythm.
- Riyaaz: Riyaz is the disciplined, daily practice through which a musician hones skill, control, and emotional depth in their art.
- Sur-Taal: Sur-taal refers to the harmony of pitch (sur) and rhythm (taal) that creates balance and coherence in Indian classical music.
- Bandish: A bandish is a fixed melodic composition in a raaga that provides the structure for improvisation in Indian classical music.
Cover photo by: Niko Nieminen on Unsplash
