The World Beyond by Sangeeta Bhargava Page A

santoor … Why, there was even an old piano that stood by itself, a little conspicuously, in the west end of the room.
    ‘Our small collection,’ the prince said humbly, the tone and the look on his face belying modesty. ‘Is there any particular instrument that you wish to learn?’
    Rachael strummed the strings on the sitar, then the veena. Then she picked up a trumpet and blew hard into it.
    ‘Oh please, it sounds like a donkey being strangulated.’ The prince covered his ears, lines creasing his forehead.
    Laughing, Rachael turned to face him, then blew into the trumpet again.
    ‘Ma’am, kindly desist molesting the qurna,’ he said as he snatched the trumpet from her hand and put it down.
    Rachael licked her lips. ‘I fear I have no idea where to start.’
    ‘Since you play the piano – and very well, if I may add – I think we should start with the harmonium. Please be seated.’
    She sat down on the Persian carpet, playing with the tassel of an oblong pillow.
    ‘The octave do-re-me-fa … becomes sa-re-ga-ma … in Hindustani. Now listen.’
    Rachael watched as the prince’s right hand moved elegantly over the keys of the harmonium while the left hand pumped the bellows.
    ‘You play with perfection!’
    ‘When you have Ustad Junaid Ali Khan as your teacher, you cannot but play perfectly. He once threw the tabla at me when I was out of tune.’
    ‘No! Pray tell me it did not hurt?’
    ‘Not really,’ the prince grinned. ‘I ducked just in time. But the poor tabla broke into pi—’ He stopped speaking as he heard footsteps outside the hall. ‘I hope it’s not Abba Huzoor,’ he whispered.
    Rachael looked towards the door. It was a servant. He placed two silver bowls containing melons before them, bowed and swayed out of the room.
    The prince picked one bowl and handed it to her. As she slowly ate the cool refreshing fruit, he started strumming a sitar. ‘I composed a new tune yesterday. Let me play it for you.’
    Rachael watched him play. She noticed his fingernails were square, practical, unlike her thin, tapering, artistic ones, with all the moons visible. ‘Play the last stanza a scale higher,’ she said after a while.
    ‘All right, let’s try doing that … Ya Ali, you’re right, ma’am. It heightens the climax.’ Salim put down the sitar with a satisfied smile.
    ‘Not “ma’am” – Rachael.’
    ‘Ray … Chal,’ Salim drawled.
    Rachael smiled. She liked the way he said her name – Ray Chal, like two separate words; two happy notes of a lilting song. Or the sound of a brook bubbling over pebbles. Ray Chal Ray Chal …
    ‘All right, your turn now,’ said the prince.
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘May I remind you of your promise? To teach the piano?’
    Walking over to the piano, Rachael tried to play, but it was in vain. Some of the keys were dead, others were off-key.
    ‘Well, in that case, you can teach me in your home.’
    ‘Home?’ She looked hastily at the clock that stood along the wall. ‘Oh goodness, it’s four o’clock. I had better leave if I wish to sneak back before Mother and Papa get back home.’
    She hurriedly wrapped the chador around her.
    Salim was on his feet in a trice and sprang before her. ‘Wait, you cannot leave so soon. We’d only just started.’
    ‘I must. I don’t have my parents’ permission. But do not vex yourself. I’m going to coax Papa to let you teach me Hindustani music. I’m sure he’ll say yes. He has a soft spot for me, you know.’
    ‘Who wouldn’t?’ Salim mumbled.
    Scrunching up her nose, Rachael looked at him, not sure she had heard right. He looked back at her with a straight face but his eyes were laughing.
    She thanked him and hastened through the hall and down the stairs. In her hurry, she did not realise she had dropped the bracelet that Christopher had given her last Christmas.

    Papa was strolling through the front garden, speaking intently to a sepoy, when Rachael alighted from the carriage. Her teeth