Stories  
Folk Song at My Doorstep – 2
by NS Murty

There was no more drizzle, it was raining outside; there was no more twilight and everything went dark around; there was no bustle of people, it was all silence; there was no more dust outside, just the song filled the entire space.

And in the Irani hotel the usual blurb, the buzz of nonstop playing radio, sounds of empty cups, everything froze still for half an hour. With the backdrop of steady rain, there was a cascade of folksongs before them.

The rain thinned into a drizzle back. Paying for the two cups of tea, the village girl walked into that fine rain with her mate without looking back.

She left that place as suddenly as a peacock would, seeing the clouds disappear, which up till then was dancing blissfully spanning her plumes under a steady rain and feasting the eyes.

~*~

“Your songs of yesterday at the Irani hotel were so good. Will you sing them for me? I shall record them. Pay you some money, too." He asked her at the grocery shop the following day.
Rolling her eyelids roundly she asked," you may pay for it, but will the song come out again?"
"I will record them. You sing. " He asked her again.
“What is there in my songs? Are they film songs? Was there any music? They are just songs of travail, songs of labor. For you townsman, everything seems strange," she dismissed his offer.
"He wants to tape them. Why don't you sing for him? He will pay you your daily wage," the shopkeeper spoke in Urdu in an attempt to convince her.
" You mean I sing him skipping my work? My maistry would fuck me," she said rather uninhibitedly funking at that very idea.
" No, no. You can come while you return from your work. That is the house. Will you come tomorrow?" He asked pointing in the direction of his room.
" Of what use are these songs to you?" She asked innocently.
“I just want to listen."
"Oh! Just for that!" She did not resist any longer.

~*~


She went to his room around seven in the evening. She looked around and finding none asked,

“Isn’t the housewife at home?"
"No."

Darkness had not set in outside. The room was however dark already. He switched on the light and set the tape recorder. She started singing. It was nine by the time she finished. She looked into the open. It was a cake-like silent darkness.

"I must go." There was fear in her voice.
"Won't you listen to your own voice?" He tempted.
"Yes," she nodded.
He rewound the cassette and played it. "It is so good to hear," she said to her mate, faintly displaying her pleasure through her eyes.
"How many songs can you sing?" he wanted to know.
"Very many."
"Then, can you sing all of them for me?" There was appeal in his voice.
"When there is a patient ear to hear, will the voice lag behind going dumb?" She questioned. He took out a ten-rupee note. "Take this." He offered.
"What did I do? Did I lift a bag of sand for you or, a load of bricks? You offer so much for just singing? No. No. My boy. It may be your fancy to offer money for a song. But it won't go with me."

So saying she hurried out, passed the doorway, and soon the beating of her anklets was lost in her brisk pace.

He never looked at her physical form. He only saw the song in her. She never gave any thought to his manliness. She saw in him the love for her song. She would anyway sing at some place or the other. But she needed some loneliness ... It could be the loneliness when she would breast-feed her suckling; or, the loneliness of her footsteps when she goes for work; or, a loneliness of the kind she yearns, reclining in bed, to pour out her heart to her mate.

Next evening. Same time, same place. In the small room folksongs took flight like the chirping of birds at dawn.

– Continued

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