A relaxing and sumptuous dinner is what Vikram and Sandhya needed at the Restaurant after a long day of sightseeing in Shimla. The four km hike to the Glen forest had tired Sandhya. She had sprained her ankle on the way back and now didn’t wish to walk even to her room. She was quietly enjoying the pan-fried fish cutlets, while Vikram, soaking in the colonial charm of the restaurant, savoured the lamb chops with the Merlot. The weekend break had gone quite well, providing them their much needed getaway after five-six months of hectic schedules. The early morning view of the Himalayas from the balcony of their room at the Wildflower Hall was a refreshing change from the concrete views from their apartment in Gurgaon. The change brought a serenity particularly for Sandhya who had been quite stressed and irritable in the last month or so.

“Hey! That’s Tomar Holo Shuru!” Sandhya had taken a break from devouring the cutlets.

“What?” asked a bemused Vikram.

“It is a famous Bengali Song. That guy is playing it on the violin.”

“Oh. Is it? I kind of like the music,” Vikram pretended to look interested. “He plays his instrument quite well. So, is he a Bong?”

“Probably is. But I had never heard this song on the violin. It is lovely. Just look at him. Completely lost in his music.”

“Yeah. You see, his whole upper body is swinging in sync with the bow and his facial expressions are ever changing.” Vikram let out a laugh.

“Shut up!” Sandhya didn’t enjoy the comment. “That is how passionate people play their music. Anyways what do you know about music?”

“Ok, Ok. You know……” Vikram’s response was lost in the lukewarm applause from the guests as the violinist finished and kept his instrument on the side. As he got down from the podium, Sandhya waved to him cheerfully.

“C’mon Sandy! Just because he is a Bong, you have to talk to him?”

“Shut up! What is your problem with some chit chat? He looks a jovial fellow and musicians are anyways charming people. Their dinner conversations are always interesting,” retorted Sandhya.

“So, you are getting bored with me?”

This time Vikram only got a strong and forceful stare from his wife.

“Helloooo! How are you doing today?” The fiddler came to their table and gave them an animated greeting.

“We are fine, thank you,” said Sandhya. “Weren’t you playing a Bengali song? Tomar Holo Shuru?”

“Oh Bangali! Yes! Yes! You noticed? Haa! Most people don’t notice the music or the musician. They just clap when they realize it is over.” He said with a broad grin. “You see, the crabs and the chicken are more appealing at this time. The music is just a filler.”

“By the way, I am Nick, actually Nikhil, Nikhil Bose, but my old mates called me Nick so it has stayed.”

“I am Sandhya and my husband Vikram.”

“Hello Nick, you play the violin really well,” Vikram did the bare minimum.

“Thank you. It is good only if someone likes it,” Nick was obviously flattered.

“It was really nice. I had never heard this song on the violin before and I was surprised to see someone play a Bangla song here,” said Sandhya. “So where are you from?”

“Everywhere…” laughed Nick as he seated himself. Sandhya looked at Vikram and he looked the other way.

“I grew up in five different states with my father having a transferable job in Indian Oil. Both parents were originally from Darjeeling. I heard all the robindro shongeet from my mother. She had all these LP records of Debobroto, Hemonto, Chinmoy, loved all of them. You are Sandhya, right? Have you heard Sandhya Mukherjee?”

“No, not really,” said Sandhya, slightly embarrassed. She hadn’t even heard the name.

“Haa! So, whom have you heard? Sunidhi Chauhan? She is good but you should hear the old ladies. Divine, just divine voices. But then you won’t have the time I know. This generation doesn’t have much time for the old ones. Haa… what do you think?”

Sandhya looked at Vikram to take the conversation in another direction. Vikram, irritated with her for calling Nick in the first place, obliged.

“You have been a musician for long? ” he asked.

“Oh yes! Almost 20 years. Earlier we had a full troupe. Pianists, guitarists, flutists, all were there. We did quite well for the first ten years or so. We were at the Oberoi in Udaipur, Taj Palace in Mumbai and Leela in Bangalore.” Then the wife of one of our mates died of cancer. Slowly we all separated. Some took to other better paying jobs. Music doesn’t pay you much.”

“So, you used to perform at the Taj Palace?” asked Vikram, showing some respect.

“Yeah! We played in front of many celebrities, film stars, politicians. Narsimha Rao, Manmohan Singh, Vajpayee, all of them. Pronob Da would ask me to come near him, give a pat on my shoulder and say, Ei! Oi gaan ta ektu shuniye de aajke. Just play that song today. I played whatever he wanted to hear. Had no idea that one day he would be President.”

Vikram observed Nick as he went on. Nikhil Bose, probably in his mid-forties, was big, boisterous, and had a dominating manner. His gaudy attire consisting of a multi-colored check shirt and a pair of red baggy trousers, matched his loud personality. The redness of his eyes, ragged face and the unrestrained manner of his conversation showed that he must have taken down a few pegs before he picked the violin in the evening. On the way to their table, he had loud and gleeful conversations with some of the guests who didn’t seem to be very amused by him. He took one of their kids in his arms, went for a trip round the buffet and then came back. Gave the little boy a tight hug before letting him go. The boy was in obvious relief to be back with his family.

“Ei Mohan! Come here.” The waiter arrived without delay. “Quickly get me a Johnny Walker. Large, with lots of ice. Okay. Go, quickly! Nick gave Mohan a stare to make sure that he actually went quickly.”

“So, what do you guys do? Work in some MNC?”

“Yeah. I work with American Express and he is with McKinsey. We live in Gurgaon.” said Sandhya.

“Gurgaon. Yes, yes! I know. Rich place. Gen X, Gen Y, with six-seven figure salaries. I know. But you are not Bengali?”  Nick looked at Vikram.

“No. I am Punjabi.” Vikram was half sure that Nick had a very low opinion of Punjabis.

“Inter caste love story. Haa! Good, very good. All marriages are cosmopolitan these days. Bengali brides wear mangalsutra, don’t wear the shaakha and pola. Aah! Here comes my drink.” Sandhya fully embarassed, thanked Mohan silently.

As Nick took his first sip, the expression on his face gave an impression as if he was speaking to the gods in heaven. “This is all I need. A glass of fine scotch in the evening. You don’t need anything else in life.”

“In the evenings, I am all by myself. I open the windows. Let the wind from the hills come in. I prepare a glass, relax in my big armchair and let my violin sing. Mostly classics. It goes well with the scotch.”

“So, your wife too lives here in Shimla?” asked Sandhya.

“Na! She is in Pondicherry. Left me eight years ago. Said that I love my drink more than her. Haa! You tell me, who said that women and scotch can’t be together in a man’s life?”

“I hope she is happy now. Has a French husband. A baker. Maybe someday she will tell him that you love your bread more than me,” Nick let out a loud guffaw.

Vikram and Sandhya looked at each other not sure how to react. “And kids?” Vikram asked.

“She left before we could have one.” Another laughter.

“Vinod used to like her a lot. Even she liked him, almost like her son. Vinod’s father was the concierge at a hotel in Panjim where we used to perform. We were good friends, you know. We used to sit for drinks and gossip every evening. Then he died in an accident. Fell down some stairs. Broke his neck, brain was injured, very bad.”

“Vinod was about twelve at that time. I brought him home with me. His mother had already died when he was three. I told him, chinta korbi na… ami aachi. From today, you are my son.”

“Very lovely boy. Very nice. Respected me so much. After she left, he used to look after me. In the evenings we would play cards, carrom, listen to Beatles. I would play the violin and he would sing. Verrryyy nice boy.”

Another sip. Mr. Walker was doing all the talking now. A largely one-sided vociferous conversation so far had now given way to an unrestrained monologue where memories were just tumbling down the precipice with the alcohol. Vikram and Sandhya were now merely a silent audience.

“Loved bikes,” Nick continued. “He and Farhan, his college friend, would go for long rides. Young boys you know. He was coming home after his exams. Here, here only he was studying. This St. Andrews College. Stayed at the hostel.”

“One afternoon he calls me from the hostel. ‘Baba, I am coming home tomorrow morning.’

I was so happy. Made up his room. In the evening, around eight, I was in my armchair by the window in the living room. Looking out in the dark towards the hills, playing my violin. Must have dozed off then. Suddenly I woke up. Someone was knocking at the door. I looked at the clock. It was 12.30 a.m.

‘Baba, open the door, it is me, Vinod.’ I got up and opened the door. It was him.

I asked him. ‘Hey! What is this? Why are you coming so late at this hour? You were coming tomorrow.

Vinod said, ‘I don’t know. Wanted to see you today. So just came.’

‘But it is midnight. It is so dangerous to bike at night. Are you okay?’

‘Yes, yes, I am fine. Baba, I am very tired. Going to sleep. Will talk in the morning.’ He just went inside his room and closed the door.

I was so surprised to see him at that hour. Must be something wrong. I thought. Will have to ask him in the morning.

The phone ring woke me up. It was 7 a.m. His friend Farhan had called.

He said that Vinod met an accident on his bike while coming home last evening. Vinod wanted to surprise me so had left college the previous evening. This must be after he had called me. His body had been found in the morning on the side of the road at about 25 km from my house. His bike had fallen into the abyss. Farhan was waiting for me at the hospital. Doctors said that Vinod must have died immediately after the accident.

I looked towards Vinod’s room. The door was open. The room was just the way I had made it up on the previous day.”

Nick wiped his eyes. “You should never give your son a bike.”

His glass was now empty. “Hey! It is 9.15. Time to pack up. You guys are here tomorrow?”

“No. We are leaving tomorrow afternoon.” Vikram replied.

“Okay! Fine. Great talking to you. Helllooo, my princess!” Another kid, a young girl, with ice cream on her plate was the new victim of Nick’s animated affections. “Where is your mama?”

Vikram and Sandhya were now by themselves.

“Would there be anything else Sir?” Mohan, thankfully had arrived once again. This time to break the heavy silence at their table.

“No, thank you. Bill please.” It was time to retire to their room.