Sri plucked the red bindi glued to the mirror and put it on her forehead between her eyebrows. “Kemon lagche amake?” she asked Arun. Without moving his eyes from his phone, he replied, “Khub shundor !!”

Sri sighed and adjusted her saree. When he was a little boy, Arun would stand behind and watch Sri do her makeup at her dressing table. He would then help Sri adjust the pleats of her saree. She would then comb his hair with a side parting, tuck his new tailored shirt into his new tailored trousers and help him wear his Cherry Blossomed shoes.

“Now that’s my good boy.” Sri would remark joyfully. “I don’t like being a good boy.” Arun would make a face and try to readjust his hair. Sri wouldn’t let him do that then, but she couldn’t stop him anymore. Now Arun would get his hair cut in strange styles, and wear T-shirts and jeans to Durga Puja pandals.

They all get in the car. Arun’s father was on the phone solving client’s never-ending financial problems. The driver drives them to Kali Bari in Gol Market. Every year, Sri would offer Maha Ashtami’s pushpanjoli at Kali Bari. She liked the homely ambience there compared to the pretentious air of some of the other commercially oriented pandals in Delhi.

After the onjoli, they come across Mr. & Mrs. Dasgupta along with their daughter Aparna. Mr. Dasgupta and Arun’s father had met as colleagues in the private banking division of Axis Bank’s branch in Defense Colony, and had been friends for fifteen years now. Aparna and Arun knew each other for almost the same duration. They had been mates since middle school and now studied together at Hindu College. Sri liked Aparna a lot and looked forward to make her a part of her family in the future.

“So, how was Saptami? Where did you go?” Neela, Aparna’s mother asked Sri.

“Oi, C.R. Park only. Then Sarojini Nagar too.” Sri replied.

“Did you have the bhog yesterday at K Block? It was just oshadhoron! I joined the queue twice to have two portions of it. Asked for more of the khichudi the second time. Mmm…marvelous!” Neela said still feeling yesterday’s khichudi in her mouth.

Arun’s father was chatting with Mr. Dasgupta about some investments for a client. Wearing a black kurta with white pyjama, he looked good, Sri thought. At 52, he looked no older than 40-42. Sri had seen Ranjan for the first time only on the day of their marriage. It was during her third year, when after coming home one afternoon from college, having rice with mooshur dal and aloo bhaja, she heard Aarti pishi and her mother talking in the next room.

“Very nice boy. C.A, earns a good salary. He only has his mother, small family, not demanding at all.” Aarti pishi was listing out the virtues of some nice boy.  

“Hmm… sounds really nice,” Sri’s mother said, “but Sri wants to study M.A., although her Baba doesn’t want her to.”

“Theek hi toh,” Aarti pishi continued approvingly, “you don’t get such alliances every day. The boy works in Delhi, big company, makes a lot of money. What will Sri anyways do with an M.A. degree? After all, she is not going to do a job. The money for her M.A education could be better used for her marriage.”

“After marriage, domestic life, children, will take up all her time. The M.A. degree will be of no use.”

Two weeks before the third-year exams were to begin in March, the marriage date was fixed. August tenth. Sri told her friends while returning from college one day, when they stopped by Manav Kaka’s tea shop to have samosas.

“So, you will not sing in Arnab Da’s troupe in July?” Shikha asked.

“Hmm… Naa. I will be going to Asansol for the marriage preparations. So won’t be able to go to Kolkata,” Sri replied with a distant expression in her voice.

“But you should continue pursuing music after marriage. You are so good, don’t let it go.”

“Naa re, aar hobena,” Sri said with a casual smile. “It won’t really be possible. New city, new house, new family. Making a new life… that will take up all the time.”

That was probably the last time Sri had a laugh with all of them. Shikha, Jhumpa, Ratna, Meena, all were teasing her and giggling with their fantasies of Sri’s first night. She never saw any of them again after marriage. It had been twenty-two years.

Twenty-two years had gone by making a life in a big, unknown city with a stranger. Being a mother, a homemaker, building a new home every two years. The jackfruit and guava trees; girly conversations full of laughter by the pukur; Mrs. Sanyal’s piercing look through her glasses; Manav Kaka’s sesame laddoos and ghoogni; Rajesh Khanna wooing Sharmila Tagore, all had faded into the grind and loneliness of the city life. Besides sporadic hellos with neighbors, there was no one to have heartfelt conversations with. Arun’s activities thus, became the only purpose in life. Making his favorite dishes; helping him with studies; answering his endless questions; tolerating his tantrums and rebelliousness had been Sri’s life. Time, though, was slowly taking that purpose away from her. At twenty, her son didn’t like her affections or interference any more.

Where are you? When will you come home? Have you eaten? What will you eat? Arun doesn’t like these nagging questions. He comes home, goes to his room, closes the door, and comes out only after Sri’s repeated calls for dinner.

On Dussehra evening, after a whole day out with friends, Arun returned home to see his upset mother waiting for him at dinner.

“Why do I have to call you so many times? How much trouble will you give me? All day I am alone at home, doing all the work, cooking for you and your father, worrying about you. You don’t bother or even return my calls.” Sri let out her frustration.

“Aah! Maa!! Stop your drama. I haven’t asked you to do anything for me.” With an irritated expression Arun took a plate, put some rice and chicken on it, went to his room and slammed the door.

“Montu! Come back! What kind of behavior is this?” Sri was shouting now.

“Leave him.” Ranjan said.

“Did you see? His behavior, his language is getting so bad.”

“Let him be. He is still a kid.” Ranjan said. “These days, they are all like that. Once he goes to America for his MBA, he will change. He will have to. All this attitude of his will be gone. Give me some more chicken, will you?”

Sri didn’t say anything further. She wasn’t prepared to think about what was coming.

Arun woke up at ten next morning, a Sunday. He remembered his last night’s tantrum and thought it best not to leave his room before lunch to avoid his mother’s anger. He scrolled through his phone, called up Aparna, chatted for an hour, then showered.

Feeling bored, he looked around his room. It was in a mess. Lazily he started arranging his stuff. Putting dirty clothes in the laundry basket. Adjusting his bedsheet. Putting his books on the shelf. Untangling the wires of his computer accessories. Arranging stuff in his cupboard. Clothes, books, gifts, video games, forgotten junk. Then nostalgia casually hit him. While shuffling through his old comic books in the bottom drawer of the cupboard, his eyes fell on an object which had completely faded away from his memory. An old, black colored, Philips cassette player & recorder. Images from his childhood surfaced from the depths. They had a Sony multimedia music system now. But this battery-operated cassette player was on which Arun had heard and danced to most of the music during his childhood. With several rounds of moving houses, it had become a lost relic. Images of the summer holidays when he was in middle school rolled on in his mind. Sitting on a floor mat, he and his mother were recording songs on the tape. During load shedding or whenever he was bored, Arun would insist his mother to sing, and would record her songs on a TDK cassette. Over two years, Arun had recorded a collection of songs sung by his mother on two cassettes, meticulously listing them on the cassette covers. He shuffled through the drawer again and there were the two cassettes. Labeled ‘Songs by Srilekha: Vol. 1 & 2. Both had twelve songs on them with six each on side A and B.

Arun felt a pang of guilt. His behavior last night was unacceptable. He realized he didn’t spend much time with his mother these days and how much he ignored her. He needed to change that. He took one of the cassettes and peeked out of his room. His mother was in the kitchen. He silently went into the drawing room, inserted the cassette into the cassette section of the music system and pressed Play. No sound. Then Arun realized he probably needed to rewind it. He did so and pressed Play again, keeping the volume very low. The tape screeched. Muffled sounds. Sound of a chair shifting. “Maa, start now…” His twelve-year-old voice. A long pause…

Sri added some cumin seeds and dry red chilies in hot ghee which she then added to the boiling arhar dal. When the sizzling of the phoron receded, like the sounds of dimly lit homes hidden faraway in the darkness of hills, she heard a faint but familiar voice floating somewhere in the distance. Humne dekhi hai un aankhon ki mehekti khushboo…. It took Sri more than a minute to realize what she was hearing. It was her voice. Then Arun ambushed her with a hug from behind.

“Ei! Leave me! Nekamo bhalo lage na! You don’t have any sense of how to talk to your mother. No respect. Just need me for your food.”

“Sorry Maa. You know how I am. Forgive me. Who else will I throw tantrum on? Arun said with a sheepish grin still holding Sri tightly. “But look what I found today?”

Sri remembered them very well. Those days, Arun had caught a fetish of recording on the tape recorder. Chirping of birds, rain, conversations of family guests at home, practicing his debate speeches. One day, hearing her singing while cooking, he forced her to sing something and recorded it. When she heard her voice on the tape, it sounded very hoarse and the song was completely out of tune. It was unacceptable to her. She asked Arun to record again. After a few attempts, her voice gradually found its touch and she found her enthusiasm.

It had become a ritual during those summer evenings. After finishing her chores, Sri would make tea, and buoyed by Arun’s childish enthusiasm, she would sing her favorite songs from her younger days. Arun’s father found their musical evenings very amusing. One night, before going to bed, he remarked,

“What have you maa-chhele started doing? Are you planning to sing in films or something? Joto shob paglamo.”

Sri smiled. “Oi… Having some fun with Montu. I have completely forgotten how to sing. If Mrs. Sanyal didimoni had heard me now, she would have really scolded me.

**********

“Maa, let’s record again and see how you sing now.” Arun said eagerly.

“Naa! Aar dorkar nei! You have grown up now and don’t love me anymore. Those times are gone.” Sri said dismissively.

“We will bring that time back.” Arun hugged her again. “It will be fun.”

In the evening, when his father had gone out for his evening walk, Arun brought the recorder powered with new batteries and a blank cassette from the junk in his cupboard. Despite Sri’s repeated dismissals, he finally convinced her to record a song. As it was all those years ago, in the first few attempts, her voice cracked repeatedly. It took some time before she could find her tone. After trying two or three songs, they finally recorded the song Khaali haath shaam aayi hai.

Sri felt proud of herself when she heard her song on the tape. Though her voice lacked strength in a few parts, it was still quite decent for someone who didn’t practice at all. Arun’s father returned from his walk before they had finished.

“You two started again? And that recorder is still there?” he laughed.

“See Baba, how wonderful Maa sounds,” Arun was beaming with pride.

“I know, I know,” Ranjan said as he went to his study.

A few weeks later, Arun, without any prior warning to Sri, dropped a bomb during dinner.

“Baba, your bank’s annual day is coming up, right? Why don’t you enter Maa’s name this time as a participant for singing activity?”

“Ei chup kor toh !” Sri was embarrassed. “I am not singing anywhere outside.”

“Why not? Baba, remember last year, Basu Aunty had sung a folk song. Maa is far better than her.”

“You are really losing your mind Montu,” said Arun’s father as he put a morsel of rice soaked in pabda fish gravy in his mouth. “You want to embarrass me in front of my colleagues and bosses. Recording a few songs at home on a tape recorder, and you think your Maa can sing on stage. Mrs. Basu is a trained singer. She has command on Robindrosongeet, adhunik, folk songs, everything.”

“Oh! C’mon Baba. Don’t be so cynical. You haven’t heard Maa’s recordings properly. She sounds wonderful. We will rehearse well on track and you will see. She will create magic. Your bosses anyways can’t sing themselves.”

“They don’t need to. They are running a big bank. Sri, don’t get into your son’s madness. Bojhao oke.”

Sri wasn’t quite listening. She had drifted somewhere else. It was 1982. The annual day of Chandannagar Girls’ College. Mrs. Sanyal, their principal, had specifically demanded that Sri will lead the musical performance. Mrs. Sanyal’s nephew Arnab was a professional singer in Kolkata and had his own small troupe. He had sung in several private functions, company events, Durga Puja programmes across West Bengal. Mrs. Sanyal had asked Arnab to arrange the music for their college event and participate in it as well. Besides two group songs, she insisted that Sri and Arnab should sing a duet in the function. Sri had rehearsed with Arnab for a week before the event. They had chosen the song Is mod se jaate hain from the movie Aandhi. In spite of being accomplished as a professional singer, Arnab never treated Sri as a novice. He even took her suggestions on bringing different variations in the song. Sri thought of Arnab as a maestro on the harmonium and sitar. Within that week, they had developed a great rapport and a sense of friendship. The annual day was attended by friends and family of all the students which made the audience in excess of six hundred. Amidst all the performances, Arnab and Sri’s duet vowed the audience. Once their song was over, almost everyone was on their feet, and the chorus of ‘once more’ ‘once more’ had filled the auditorium.

After the function, Arnab had asked Sri if she would like to come to Kolkata and sing with him in his troupe. Mrs. Sanyal thought it was a good idea. During a visit to Sri’s home, she insisted her mother about it. “Di, you must send Sri to Kolkata. She has talent and it would be a good opportunity for her to seriously make something out of it.”

“Are you listening?”Arun’s father brought her back. “Tell him to stop his nonsense.”

“I was thinking,” Sri felt her voice sounded different, “that I will give it a try. I mean, I used to sing in college.”

“What!” Arun’s father almost choked on the rice in his mouth. “You have also gone crazy along with him?”

“Singing in some college function twenty years ago and singing in my company event is not the same thing. I have a reputation there. My colleagues will laugh at me.”

“Uff Baba! Why are you doing like this?” There was no stopping Arun now.

“It is not some national level music event. When Maa has agreed, it is decided then. You are going to enter her name in the event.”

“No! Sri! What is wrong with you? You may have a good voice but you think, you can sing like Basu boudi on stage. She is a trained singer, not an amateur like you. Don’t do this.”

“Let me see. Let me rehearse a bit.” Sri still found her voice unfamiliar. “If I feel confident, only then I will do it. Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you,” she said smiling.

Like Arun’s father, Sri didn’t know what had come onto her. She hadn’t been on the stage in twenty-three years and hadn’t practiced any singing during this time. But she wanted to do this. She didn’t know why but she wanted to do this. Out of nowhere, Arun had suddenly given her something to try. And as Arun said, it was only a company function. She had attended several in the past and the performances in them by the employees or their relatives were not expected to be professional. Sri wasn’t confident but Arun’s enthusiasm made her feel she would manage.

Thwarting more protestations from him over the next few days, Arun made sure that his father did enter his mother’s name in the event. The event was three weeks away, and Arun wasted no time in downloading karaoke tracks of several songs from the internet. In the drawing room, during the evenings, Arun would connect his phone to the stereo via Bluetooth, the tracks would start flowing out of the speakers, and Sri would sing. Arun made the practice look like a proper stage setting. He would sit on the sofa in the wider part of the room and make Sri stand in front and sing, holding a rolled magazine in her hand. Arun would also call Aparna home. Over tea, samosas and pakoras, Sri, Aparna and Arun would sing together, laugh, and fight over what was and wasn’t working. During those evenings, Sri realized she hadn’t been so enthusiastic about anything else in a very long time. Watching Arun and Aparna sitting on the sofa, cheering for her, she felt a renewed vigor for life. “Aunty, you are just oshadhoron! Kono kotha hobena !” Aparna would exclaim. They look so good together. Sri would think. After drifting through several old songs, Sri finally selected a new song, Kabhi Shaam Dhale from the movie Sur. Sung by Sunidhi Chauhan, it was a very soulful track but also a difficult one.

Even outside their evening practice sessions, Sri would practice the song while cooking, bathing or doing other chores. She would play the original song on repeat, and concentrate on the pitch, scale and Sunidhi’s variations. She decided to put in one or two of her own nuances in the song.

The day finally arrived. Sri wore a navy blue Kanjeevaram silk saree, and a gold necklace set that Arun’s father had given her on their tenth anniversary. Arun for once wasn’t into his phone. “You look amazing Maa.” He was super excited and restless.

“Feeling very nervous, Montu. Parbo toh?” Sri asked Arun.

“Of course, Maa! Don’t think anything. Just go and sing. Aparna and I will be in the front row cheering for you.”

Before stepping into the car, Ranjan put a hand on Sri’s shoulder, “Dekho Sri, I am doing this for you and Montu. Please give it your best attempt. I don’t want anyone to laugh at me later.” Sri smiled looking at Arun who gave a scornful look at his father.

The event had an attendance of over three hundred people. The bank’s zonal President, Vice Presidents, General Managers, all were present with their families. Backstage, before her performance, Arun and Aparna gave Sri a hug. Arun had already set the track with the organizers who were handling the event.

“Now we have our next performance,” the emcee was announcing, “a solo singing performance by Mr. Ranjan Mollick’s wife, Mrs. Srilekha Mollick…”

“Don’t worry Maa. Ignore the audience. You will do great.” Arun gave her another reassuring hug.

Sweating from head to toe, Sri went on to the stage. Her calf muscles were trembling. Arun and Aparna were sitting in the front row clapping. Arun’s father was sitting with his head slightly bowed with the cagey expression of a man waiting for his punishment. Sri smiled to herself. The track played. For a moment, Sri thought she saw Mrs. Sanyal and her friends, Shikha, Ratna, Meena, all sitting in the front. She let herself go.

Sri wasn’t aware of her surroundings for the next eight minutes, but when they got over, her trance was broken by a rapturous applause. This time, there were no calls for ‘once more’, but the applause was vocal enough to tell her that she hadn’t disappointed herself. Arun was almost jumping with joy. His father too let out a smile when Mr. Adhikari sitting next to him, nudged him.

At the dinner buffet, they came across the Basus and Dasguptas. Mr. Dasgupta was effusive in his praise for Sri. “Ki Dada? Why were you hiding our own Lata Di all these years?” he asked looking at Ranjan.

“You know, real talent finds its way out. It can’t be hidden forever.” Mr. Basu joined in the praise on which he got a stare from his wife.

Behind, Arun and Aparna were giggling.

“She actually used to sing in her college,” Arun’s father said. “I always encourage her to come out of her shell and try something. I give her Mrs. Basu’s example. I guess she finally got inspired from her.”

“Oh! C’mon, Mr. Mollick. You are being too nice.”  Mrs. Basu was melting with the admiration. “Mrs. Mollick, you were very nice. Need a little training though. It would be much better then. Why don’t you give a visit to my music school? We can talk more about it.”

“No, no.” Sri said shyly. “I really don’t feel like learning music now at this age. It was only Arun’s enthusiasm that got me into it. There is hardly time.”

That night when Sri went to bed, she was smiling. There was an unfamiliar sense of contentment. She felt, this feeling would take her through the rest of her life even if she didn’t find it again.

**********

Two months later, on a Saturday in February, Arun’s admission letter to the MBA program in University of Illinois arrived. Arun on coming home and seeing the letter, was overjoyed and relieved. He had worked hard for the GMAT and GRE exams as he knew his father had high expectations from him. Ranjan was happy and proud of his son. “Now this is your opportunity to be a man and take responsibility for your life.”

On Sunday evening, they went for dinner to Oh! Calcutta in CyberHub to celebrate the occasion. Ranjan had already started informing all their relatives and family friends about Arun’s achievement. Congratulatory calls and visits were pouring in. They all came with their opinions, suggestions, and advice about Arun’s future.

During the next two months, Arun got fully occupied with the preparations for his final year exams, and admission formalities for the MBA program. One evening, when he was studying, his mother came to his room.

Sitting next to him, she stroked his hair. “Ei Montu, can’t you do your MBA here in India? So many good colleges here, IIMs etc?” Arun had been dreading this conversation for a while and knew it wouldn’t go well.

“No Maa. I want to go to U.S. See the world. The exposure is completely different abroad.” Arun replied knowing the answer wouldn’t satisfy his mother.

“What exposure? I have heard that IIMs are top colleges. There are others, I am sure. Then there are so many good companies here. You will get a good job also.”

“It will be so tough for you. Living alone, cooking, studying, different culture. Here at least you could come home in a few months and have homemade food.”

“Maa, don’t worry. I will manage. As Baba says, it is time I take responsibility for myself and grow up.”

“Does growing up only mean going abroad to study and later become slaves to foreigners?”

“Maa…” Arun was getting irritated now. “No one is becoming a slave. In America, everyone who works hard is treated equally. I may go on to become the CEO of some big MNC there someday. They won’t see whether I am Indian or Chinese or American. They will only see my work.”

Sri sighed. She thought of trying something else.

“What about Aparna? You won’t miss her?”

“Of course, I will miss her. So what? I will miss all my friends.”

“Bhak! You both like each other. She won’t move abroad. What if her parents find some other boy for her?”

Arun was laughing now. “Maa! What do you keep thinking? Who said I want to marry Aparna? She is a very close friend. Nothing more.”

“Shut up! Aparna likes you a lot. I know it. You should not ignore her, now that you have got admission in America.”

“Maa, I don’t know where you get these ideas from. Aparna and I are just friends. And anyways, I am not going to sacrifice my career dreams for a girl.”

Sri smiled. Her son had already grown up. She knew it wouldn’t work but she tried to make a final appeal.

“Aar ami? You will leave me alone here? Who will I cook for now?”

Arun gave her a hug and kissed her. “Uff Maa! Don’t be so emotional. I will call you. We will do video calls, chat. If not everyday, then alternate day. Then I would be coming again after a year or so. Don’t be sad as if you will never see me again.”

“I know how much you will call and chat.”

“What if I feel like singing something? Who will record then?”

Arun shook his head in exasperation. “So what do you want? That I stay here and record your songs all my life?” Arun realized the sting in his words the moment he uttered them.

Sri stroked Arun’s hair again. “Theek aache. You study now. I won’t disturb you.”

In May, Arun left for Illinois. During the first month, he would call almost every day. Although Sri could see Arun on her phone screen but he seemed very far. She would ask him what he was doing for food. How is the weather there? How is the accommodation? How are the professors? Gradually the frequency of Arun’s calls decreased to once a fortnight or three weeks or so. Academic pressures, some presentation, some conference, some classmates’ gathering.

“He is busy now. Don’t always nag him for not calling.” Ranjan would tell Sri. She silently agreed and slowly found herself not waiting too eagerly for Arun’s calls. With him not around, the house felt very quiet. There was not much to do, now that she didn’t have to cook Arun’s favorite dishes. Or worry about his studies or him coming late. She felt a sense of detachment with her chores which had filled most of her life so far.

On a rainy afternoon in July, Sri was arranging the emptiness in Arun’s room. There in his cupboard, she found the Philips tape recorder and the two cassettes. She took the cassette labeled Vol.1, went to the drawing room and played it in the stereo. She forwarded the tape a bit so that the song marked by Arun as number five on the cover would play.

She pulled a chair and sat by the window watching the rain. “Oooo Sajnaaaa…. barkha bahar aayi…” Sri joined herself in the song. Outside, on the window sill under the parapet, two pigeons hid from the rain. Two squirrels chased each other up an Ashoka tree and disappeared into its branches.

“Sri…?” Arun’s father called from the study.

“Hain… bolo…”

“It is a lovely weather. Can we have some tea and pakoras?”

“Theek aache. Give me half an hour. Will get them ready.” Sri stopped the stereo and went inside the kitchen.