Madhuri Vijay Reads "Lara's Theme"

Welcome to The Writer's Voice: Madhuri Vijay Reads "Lara's Theme" Hi, this is Deborah Trisman, host of the Writers Voice Podcast, and I'd like to ask for your help with something. We're currently conducting a survey of our audience and we want to hear from you as a Writers Voice listener. This is one of the best ways for us to learn about what you value as a listener and a chance for you to help shape the future of our podcast. Whether it's a dream guest for the show or thoughts on your favorite episodes, we want to hear from you. As a token of our appreciation, you'll be eligible to enter a prize drawing for up to $1000 after you complete the survey. You can find links to the survey in our episode and show notes. Thanks for listening. This is the writers voice new fiction from The New Yorker. I'm Deborah Trisman, fiction editor at The New Yorker. On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Madhuri Vijay read her story Laura's Theme, from the November 17th, 2025 issue of the magazine. Vijay is the author of the novel The Far Field, which won India's JCB Prize for Literature in 2019. She's at work on her second novel. Now here's Madhuri Vijay. The Cycle of Enthusiasm: Mother's Brief Obsessions and Self-Reproach Laura's Theme That year my mother was taking French lessons at the Allianz Francaise in Bangalore, and she claimed that her teacher had been impressed with her from the start. Madame Morally says I have a natural ear, she announced. 1 evening. Wonderful, my father, an architect, said, not looking up from the plans he had spread across the dining table. Tarun, my 16 year old brother, and I were at the table too, wrapping our notebooks in brown paper. Summer was over. On Monday, we'd returned to school. I must have said something similarly vague and admiring, but Tarun said only denim. What? I asked. De neem means from neem. Well, technically it's Serge Dinim, which was a type of cloth from there. Anyway, it's French. Nobody asked how he knew this. Tarun was the brilliant one in our family, always first in his class, though he appeared never to study. I was three years younger, and my parents silently rejoiced if I brought home anything over a 60%. That's right, my mother said, aligning herself with Tarun. As usual. English has lots of French words. Orally gave us a list. English has lots of Indian words too, my father said. Not as many as French, she declared, but I saw her glance at Tarun for confirmation. Bungalow, my father counted. Catamaran. Cummerbund. Toddy, Tarun added helpfully. Ganja, Tarun, my father warned. Just saying, we have all the good ones. Tarun tossed aside a notebook with a flourish. My father smiled and returned to his plans. Anyway. My mother said uncertainly. Since I was the only one still listening. She addressed me. Aureli says if I keep it up, I'll become fluent. Can you imagine Kushal me fluent in French? She giggled. I must be crazy. Nobody believed that my mother would keep it up. French was just the latest in a long line of hobbies, none of which had lasted more than six months. Before French, there had been Tanjour painting, bonsai, orchids, and, for three unfortunate weeks, horseback riding. Each of her passions ran the same course. A flowering of enthusiasm was followed by a period of monkish devotion during which our house filled with a paraphernalia of her pursuit. Clippers and tortured shrubs, gold foil and pots of flesh, coloured clay orchids flaunting their shameless centres. But sooner or later she descended into boredom and impatience, and one morning Tarun and I would wake to find the house scrubbed of all signs of the recent hobby, as though the Clippers and clay caked brushes were painful evidence of a former lover which needed to be quickly erased. For a while after that, our mother would be subdued, confining herself to household chores. Then something else would catch her interest, and the cycle would begin anew. The bloom of love, the roar, the fall. And beneath it, like a subterranean stream, ran the refrain, the murmured self reproach. I must be crazy. Crazy. My mother's deepest hope, covering her darkest fear, her only way of indicating that she was not like every other housewife of her class and station, packing her kids lunches and grousing about her husband. I must be crazy. Not even Tarun dared to disagree. The Unspoken Bond: Kushal and Tarun's Rooftop Helmet Game Tarun and I weren't close as brothers. At home. It was usually my mother and Tarun joking around, my father amiably playing the straight man and me watching a born fence sitter. Darun called me. How's the bum, Kushal? He'd ask out of nowhere. Need an ice pack? At school, our paths rarely crossed, though stories floated down the corridors to me, how he'd bested the Hindi teacher with the garish ties or pulled some genius prank. His classmates mostly adored him. Those who didn't were discreet about it. Older girls occasionally cornered me on the playground, ruffling my hair and calling me silly names. I suffered their attentions, but I never did what they wanted, which was to mention them to Tarun. As far as I knew, despite his popularity, he'd never had a girlfriend. At the end of each year, the students in the class below his were desperate to acquire his notebooks, as if they contained a special essence that others might absorb. Tarun laughed at this and to their horror, gave his books to the kabadiwala for recycling. Oh please, I heard him say to more than one supplicant. If you want notes, ask that Kavita. She copies down everything, even the teacher's farts. Kavita was a girl in his class, tall and pale, with waist length braids and a grumpy manner. It was rumoured that her father made her study six hours a day, but she still came in second to Tarun. I sometimes saw her during lunch, sitting outside the cycle shed, her head bent over a textbook alone. The only activity Tarun and I shared was a bit odd. After dinner, we'd hang out on our rooftop terrace, the bare concrete slab where our mother had once made a short lived attempt at beekeeping. Most of the time we'd sit around, not talking. But one day I found Tarun up there, wearing a black motorcycle helmet. Our family didn't own a motorcycle. He kept lowering and raising the visor, each time pulling a different face. It made me laugh and after that the helmet started to appear regularly. Then came the night when he said. Hit me. What? I asked. Let's see how strong you are. I nudged the helmet harder. Tarun's muffled voice said. I obeyed. His head barely moved. That's it, He said, mocking me. I hit him so hard my palm stung. He flipped the visor up, grinning. Not bad, Kujal. Soon it became our ritual, albeit one we never mentioned to our parents. Once or twice a week, we'd go up to the terrace. Tarun would wear the helmet and I'd hit him until my arm was numb. A Childhood Dream Rekindled: Father's Secret Saxophone Lessons Unlike my mother, my father had no hobbies. I liked this about him. A man without shadows. That was how I saw him. But two months after my mother took up French, a mysterious package arrived for him from abroad. He lapped upon it, ripping back the cardboard to reveal a slim burgundy case. He raised the lid, and over his shoulder we saw the glitter of gold. It was an Alto saxophone, he explained. And then he told us a story I'd never heard before. Speaker 3 As children, my father and his three older brothers had been allowed by my grandfather, a famously strict man, to play any musical instrument they wanted so long as they gave it up at age 14. Speaker 2 To focus on their studies, each boy would wake up on his 14th birthday to find that his instrument, piano, violin, Vienna, had vanished. Speaker 3 From the house, my father had watched this happen three times. But as the youngest and his father's favorite, he believed that he'd be spared. He wasn't. As an adult, my father told us, he'd considered taking saxophone classes again, but he worried that he'd pass the age when he'd be able to develop real proficiency. That didn't matter anymore. He didn't need to be Coltrane. He just wanted to play. Damn, Darren said after a long silence. Childhood dreams realized. Impressive, Pennsylvania. Despite the edge of sarcasm in his voice, he was being sincere. My father glowed. My mother cleared her throat. Saxophone glasses. She asked. With whom? Then my father revealed his second secret. He'd found a teacher, a Syrian Christian jazz musician named Tony Chandy. In fact, he'd been to Tony's place for three classes already. Tony was the one who told him that he needed to buy his own saxophone and had put him in touch with a place in Hamburg that sold second hand instruments. Play something, Tarun said. My father demurred a little before producing a box of slender wooden reeds. Speaker 2 He lifted the. Speaker 3 Saxophone from its case and laboriously inserted 1 into the mouthpiece. Then he did a bizarre duck like thing with his lips, simultaneously pursing and widening them. You'll appreciate this, he said to my mother. The mouth position you used to play the saxophone is an ambusher. That's French. My mother didn't respond. Then she said Om Boucher. My father did the duck like thing again and blew 3 unsteady notes. I clapped. Thanks Kushal. He smiled. You should hear Tony play someday. The music just pours out of his skin. Sounds painful, Tarun remarked. My mother promptly rushed into the opening he'd created. Yes, like a medical problem. Doctor help, Tarun clutched himself. I'm leaking arpeggios everywhere. My mother laughed, but my father, who ordinarily would have joined in their banter, stopped smiling. My classes with Tony are on Saturdays, he announced. He lowered his saxophone into the case and clicked it shut. That evening I heard him practising in his bedroom. Scales at first, then a melody I didn't know, sad and hauntingly beautiful despite his inept playing. The notes starting, stopping, starting again. Father's Saxophone and Tarun's Unexpected Academic Decline My father, it turned out, was serious about the saxophone. He practiced for an hour every night, ending each session with that same sad melody. It was a complex tune with many swoops and faints, and I often found myself humming it when I was supposed to be studying. Midterm tests were approaching, though mine were inconsequential compared with Dharun's. He was in the 12th standard, and in March he'd write his board exams, which would determine his future. My parents, opposites in every other way, were united in their complacency on this subject. There was no doubt in their minds that Tarun would do brilliantly. They might have worried more had they not been occupied with troubles of their own. My mother had thus far been silent about my father's gleaming new companion, But beneath that silence was anger. It was not her husband's job to be crazy, it was hers. Yet my father had the unmistakable Sheen of madness, didn't he? When he practised his scales, going up and down like a man possessed, he was audible from every corner of the house. I could even hear him from the terrace as I whacked on Tharon's helmet, and I dreaded the moment when he would begin the haunting melody which never failed to defeat him. He stumbled in the same places every time. After each mistake, there'd be a long, aggrieved pause before he picked up exactly where he'd left off. One night I began matching the rhythm of my blows on Tharon's helmet to my father's playing. I can't say why I knew the song by then, and maybe I believed that I could carry him through the tricky parts with sheer bodily force. Miraculously, it worked. He charged to the end, and I heard a startled silence from downstairs, as if he couldn't believe it either. My fingers were cramping in pain. I'd never hit Tharun so hard before. I would likely have forgotten this episode entirely if our midterm results hadn't come back a week later, revealing that for the first time, Tarun had not topped his class. His marks were good, they were admirable, but they were not excellent. My parents were so shocked that neither of them reacted visibly. Tarun, for his part, presented his failure with an air of smug challenge. Go on, act like other parents, scream, punish me. And that silenced them. He'd never got less than an 85% on any exam, yet there it was, like a blight. 78 in chemistry, 76 in physics and 80 in his best subject, maths. As for me, I stopped visiting the terrace after that because I'd realized what nobody else had, which was that Tharun's results were my fault. I'd gone too far, I'd hit him too hard. I, with my 13 year old fists, had broken my brother's impeccable mind. I don't know if Tharun was hurt by my desertion. He never said anything. He didn't appear to be studying any harder either. Kavita, the girl with the braids, had come in first. Tarun had placed third. In my memory, the next two events overlap like fish scales. The Maestro's Abode: Kushal's First Encounter with Tony Chandy The first was that I met Tony Chandy. My father had been nagging Tharun and me to accompany him to a lesson, perhaps hoping that we might be inspired to take up an instrument too. He was getting better, though he had not managed to play the haunting melody the whole way through again since that night. Not my thing, Kenny G, was Tharun's blunt response. What about you, Kushal? My father asked. I could feel Tharun and my mother watching me. My mother's look was easy to decode. Already she was becoming bored of French, but she would not allow my father's devotion to exceed hers. So she was hanging on, intoning verbs grimly filling out worksheets. Speaker 3 If I agreed. Speaker 2 To accompany my father. It would be a blow to her ego, but she would recover. Taran's look was more complicated. In it lay both a question about who I was exactly, this smaller fence sitting version of himself, and some other question which I could not articulate. OK, Pennsylvania, I said. Whatever. I could almost hear my brother smile. On a cool Saturday in December, my father and I drove to Tony Chandy's house. On the way, he told me about his teacher. Tony Chandy had had no formal training, but his talent was such that the Dalai Lama had once visited Bangalore just to hear him play. Tony had received offers from famous Bollywood directors to compose scores for their films, but he had turned them all down. Many of Tony's students had gone on to attend fancy music schools like Juilliard, but swore that Tony had already taught them everything they needed to know. Despite my suspicion that the source of this biography was none other than Tony Chandy himself, I found myself becoming excited. So it was a shock to discover that the Maestro lived in a broken down bungalow tucked into a filthy gully in Cocktown. Next door was a chicken shop with a wall of shit crusted cages, each stuffed with a dozen slowly dying birds. One had no beak, only a Crimson pucker between its dark, bright eyes. I was glad that my father didn't ring Tony's bell, just open the door and walked in. Sometimes Tony doesn't hear, he explained. His health isn't good. A deaf saxophone teacher didn't sound promising, but I followed my father down a dim hall, past a sour smelling kitchen and into a back room. Here I saw a divan with a saxophone lying on rumpled sheets, a file cabinet overflowing with scores, and finally, Tony Chandy, himself, a skinny figure in a T-shirt and track pants, smoking in a chair by the window. Morning, Tony. My father called. This is Kushal, my son. He wanted to see where the magic happens. Tony looked at me. He did, did he? His eyes had an unnerving quality, not unlike those of the dying chickens next door. My father hastily added that it was Tony's magic he was referring to, not his own. Tony nodded, losing interest. Sit down, magic, he said to me, to my father. Figure out that B minor. I sat on the divan while my father assembled his instrument. I hadn't seen him do it in weeks and was amazed. He was like an assassin loading a rifle. He tightened the Reed and stood. Ready. Go on, Tony said, still smoking. My father played a scale. He didn't look at me. Neither did Tony. I got the impression that he wasn't listening at all, or he was listening so carefully that it looked like he was asleep. When my father finished, Tony said, Now the rest. My father played his scales and Tony remained comatose. At the end he said, Your ambusher is still forced. Relax, he said, ambusher as my mother had. But it sounded natural coming from him. Let's move on. My father nodded, looking relieved. From his bag, he drew a sheaf of papers and placed them on a music stand. I read the title on the top page. Lara's Theme. Even before he began, I knew it was the tune I'd been hearing all those evenings, the melody that soared but never stayed high, that plunged but never stayed low, that seemed to hold winter in its notes. My father started and immediately made a mistake. Tony Chandy's face twitched. My father restarted and made another mistake. And then Tony did something extraordinary. He reached his cigarette out and touched my father on his bare forearm. It lasted less than a second. I don't think the tip made contact with his skin, but I smelled singed hair. To my astonishment, my father did not react again. Tony said. My father obeyed this time. He made it almost all the way through. I saw his nostrils flare as he approached a grape like cluster of notes. He let out a despairing honk before stopping again. Tony reached out with his cigarette again. I smelled my father's hair burning. What would Tarun have said if he'd been there? Likely something witty and cruel that reduced Tony Chandy to what he was, A bitter small time musician living in near poverty, spending his final years giving lessons to hapless middle-aged men. But I wasn't Tharun. Instead I wondered why my father had brought me here. Had he known that this would happen? Was he teaching me an obscure lesson about devotion? The price you had to pay for excellence. Or was he as shocked as I was? Tony Chandy did not burn my father again. My father played for another 40 minutes. He made many mistakes and Tony patiently corrected them. At one point Tony picked up his own saxophone and played a line, and I heard what my father had promised. The music did not come from Tony's instrument, it came from his skin. We didn't talk on the way home, but once we were parked in front of our house, my father said. Whatever you want to do in life, Kushal, it's OK with me as long as you're serious about it. That song, I said, ignoring him. It's called Lara's theme, Yes. He sounded thankful not to have to finish his lecture. It's from an old film. Which one? Doctor Zhivago. What's it about? Never watched it. He gave me a Wan smile. But I'm pretty sure it's a sad story. A New Dynamic: Tarun Introduces Kavita to the Family The second thing that happened was that Tarun got a girlfriend. Over dinner, he announced to my parents that he and Kavita were going around together. Kavita. My mother asked in surprise. The girl in your class, the one who beat my father, started. The one who's good at her studies, that's the one. Taran cocked his head slyly. Hang on, do you have a problem with this boyfriend, Girlfriend. Shit? I didn't think you were those kind of parents. But we're not. My mother said quickly. We don't have a problem with it. My father was slower to respond. What about her parents? Tarun's face darkened. She isn't telling them her dad. Cover your ears. Kushal is a fucking psycho. She told me he forces her to study 5-6 hours a day and once when she watched TV for two minutes longer than he gave her permission for, he cut the TV cable with a knife. I looked at my parents faces which were softening. My father was surely thinking of the iron fist of his own father, my mother perhaps, of the things that girls were and weren't allowed to do. I saw them glance at each other and I knew they'd agreed. It's fine with us if you want to have a relationship, Dharun, my father said. But your boards are coming up, and you should also be, of course, Pennsylvania, Tarun said, magnanimous. Now that he'd won, we'll spend most of our time studying. Oh, he added. I invited her here tomorrow. The next afternoon, Kavita arrived. Her hair was in the braids I remembered from school, but instead of her uniform, she wore a yellow kurta over jeans that even I could tell didn't fit her well. She stomped into our house, dropped onto our sofa, and barely looked at any of us, including Tarun. My mother had not touched her French worksheets that morning. She'd woken up buzzing with some new energy and spent an hour grilling Tarun about Kavita and her preferences. I did not understand this singular interest until Kavita was sitting down, backpack between her feet, and my mother came sailing out of the kitchen with a dozen triangular sandwiches arranged on a platter in a dainty whirl. I heard you love cheese and cucumber sandwiches, she informed Kavita brightly. Oh, Kavita said. She picked up a triangle but didn't eat it. Your hair is so beautiful, my mother murmured. Do you use shikakai? No, auntie. What do you use? Shampoo, auntie. Which one? Sunsilk, auntie. Well, I'll have to try it, my mother exclaimed. You're a walking advertisement. It was a dreadful thing to watch my mother fussing over this gruff, gangly girl as she clung to her scrap of bread and cheese. At first, I thought she was trying to put Kavita at ease. But Kavita wasn't the kind of person who needed to be put at ease. She carried herself like Yudhishtra and his chariot, always hovering an inch off the ground. Then I recalled Tarun's story about the knife and the severed TV cable, and I suddenly understood what I was seeing. It was the bloom my mother had found her next obsession. There it was, sitting on her sofa, bread crumbs falling like snow onto its yellow kurta. Goodbye to French, I thought. My father asked Kavita about her college plans. She turned to him and spoke intensely about studying engineering, after which she intended to work for five to seven years before getting her MBA. Tarun listened with a tiny, ironic smile I'd never seen on him. Then he said stop pestering her, you 2. Come, Kavi, let's go upstairs. Kavita's head shot up as if she'd never been called Covey or told to come by anyone. She rose, tripped on her bag, recovered, and followed Tarun upstairs. Nice girl, my father whispered. Bit on the shy side, maybe. Well, what do you expect? My mother hissed back. With a father like that? The Bloom of Love: Mother's Intense Focus on Kavita An hour later I passed Tarun's room on my way to our shared bathroom. His door was ajar, one of his long denim clad legs hungover the side of his bed. In a lordly British accent he was saying, Pray tell, what is the Grignard reaction, milady? I couldn't see Kavita's face so I wasn't sure whether she was smiling, but when she answered it was in her own ordinary voice. January past, Kavita started to spend more time at our house and my mother remained firmly effusive about her. Such a lovely girl, so mature, she'd say. An assessment vibrating with a darkness that had everything to do, I knew, with the knife wielding father lurking in the background. She'd tried to ask Kavita leading questions about her family, but the girl proved disappointingly unforthcoming. Her father worked for a tire manufacturer. Her mother baked and sold cakes. My mother trilled rapidly over these mundane facts. The French books still made an occasional appearance, but mainly I noticed when Kavita was around, my mother would read a sentence aloud, then translate it. Tarun would tease her and my mother would look sorrowfully towards Kavita as if the two of them now shared some womanly burden. Kavita never responded to these looks. Then she and Tarun would go upstairs to study something else. I noticed the door to Tarun's bedroom closed a little more each day. Then one day it was locked and my mother, trimming more cheese and cucumber sandwiches downstairs, had no idea. I listened at the door and what I heard made me quickly walk away. It was my mother's idea that Tarun take Kavita out for Valentine's Day. She looked up movie listings in the paper. She suggested brownie fudge sundaes at Corner House. What about bowling? Would Kavita like that? She became so single minded that my father stepped in. Leave him, poor fellow. He said. If he and Kavita want to go out, they can organize it themselves. Anyway, they have, what, a month left before boards? They need to concentrate. Don't talk to me about concentration, she snapped. What? Every night the same song. How is anyone supposed to concentrate on anything? He frowned. Tony says I have to practice why she deared. Are you and Tony going on a world tour? On any other day, Tarun would have offered a quip of his own. The two of them would have performed their mocking duet. But on that day, he gave her nothing. He just stood there, wearing the ironic smile I'd noticed the day Kavita first visited. When she realized that he wouldn't back her, she whirled to face me. Did you hear Courchele? She cried. Your father's going to be a famous musician. I thought of the smell of my father's burned arm hair. I thought of the ghosts of my mother's former passions, and for a brief, vivid moment, I despised them both. I didn't respond, and the moment passed. A Sudden End: The News of Tony Chandy's Death My father drove to a barber's appointment. My mother went into the kitchen. Tarun strolled upstairs, whistling. This is why I was the only one in the living room when the phone rang and a woman asked for my father. I said he'd gone out. She introduced herself as Radhika Garg, the director of the Bangalore School of Music. My first bewildered thought was that my mother had been right. My father was going to be a famous musician. Radhika Garg apologized for bothering us, but she was notifying all of Tony Chandy's current and former students. Tony had died late the night before of heart failure. The funeral would be held at 10 the following morning in Marthoma Church. We were welcome to attend. Buried within every family, perhaps, is the secret desire to self destruct, to push intimacy to its ugliest extremes. What else could explain the fact that we all decided to go to Tony Chandy's funeral? We reached Marthoma at the same time as Tony's coffin. We filed into the church behind it and took a seat on a Pew in the back. I'd never been to a Christian funeral before. I had the idea that it would be holy and hushed. But the church was filled with a low chatter. A white robed priest climbed to the pulpit and prayed for a long time in Malayalam. Other people got up and spoke. The last was Radhika Garg, who turned out to be a large woman in a purple sari and matching lipstick. She said that Tony was that rarest of things, a true artist. Next to me, I felt my father nod. Tony could have lived a different kind of life, she went on. He could have turned his prodigious talent to riches, but instead he chose to teach. He loved teaching. Everything he did sprang from that love. I tried to reconcile this noble portrait with a man I'd met, whose comments on my father's playing had not seemed to spring from anything other than mild irritation. What had my father seen in him that I had not? Sitting in that church, buttocks aching from the hard Pew, I felt very young, incapable of understanding the first thing about the world. I sneaked a look at Tarun. He was listening to Radhika Gerg with his newly adopted smirk, and I realized with a shock not devoid of pleasure that my brilliant older brother didn't understand the first thing about the world either. Radhika Gerg bent to the microphone and invited to the pulpit anyone else who wanted to say a few words. My father raised his hand. A Public Struggle: Father Plays "Lara's Theme" at the Funeral Please. Speaker 2 Radhika Garg said come. My father slid his saxophone case from under the Pew. I had been so distracted by Tony's coffin that I had not noticed him carry it in. He squeezed past Tarun and me into the aisle and walked respectfully around the coffin before climbing the dais. A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd as people understood that they were about to be treated to the music Tony had loved. My father put the strap around his neck and looked out at the mourners. Tony was my teacher, he said simply. Then he raised the saxophone to his lips. What else could he have played? As far as I knew, Tony had taught him no other song. The first notes of Lara's theme emerged, and my skin prickled. He sounded good. He was playing it under tempo, almost dragging it, but the notes were sure, and the melancholy of the composition spread over the gathering like a fog. I heard a gasp, A few smothered sobs. I glanced at my mother. She seemed to be made of stone. My father closed his eyes and played for his dead teacher. He played calmly and slowly, and I knew that he was determined one way or another to reach the end. Then, like a skydiver, he flung himself into the difficult part, the soaring operatic part that had always undone him. His finger slipped. The note was so wrong that my teeth hurt. He stopped blinking. Then he picked up where he'd left off. Seconds later, another dreadful mistake. Someone groaned silently. I pleaded with him to give up, or at least to make light of his ineptitude with a joke, the kind that Tharuno, my mother, would have made. But he remained utterly, grotesquely sincere. He attacked that song from every angle, and at the end he blasted the final note, which tore like a ligament. But I don't think he even heard it. He was already on his knees before Tony's coffin, dismantling his golden weapon. We did not wait to see Tony deposited into the van that would take him to the cemetery. Instead, we walked silently back to our car. My father placed his saxophone in the trunk and we all got in. Then my mother turned to him. I'm proud of you, she said. She meant it. Anyone could see that she meant it. Her hand went out to touch his arm, but he recoiled. When he spoke, it was with a malevolence I'd never heard from him. Tell me something, he said. What exactly do you plan to do with your French, huh? Impress the boy's friends? Order wine in a fancy restaurant. Become a tour guide for Snooty French tourists. Say this is Cubbon Park. Oh, La La, have you tasted Brie? That's your big dream? Her body went eerily still. My father stared straight ahead through the windshield. See, he said with disgusted satisfaction. I can do it too. Valedictorian's Moment: Tarun's Graduation and Mother's Sari Gift I no longer recall what Tarun and Kavita did for Valentine's Day, but soon it was late February and Tarun needed a suit for his graduation. He naturally had been chosen to give the valedictorian's speech. My mother took him to a suit shop and he modelled his choice for us that evening. Very handsome, my father said. He sounded warm and sad. My grown up son. He and my mother had brokered A tentative peace, their hostility put aside for the sake of Tarun's boards, which he would take in two weeks. My father had not touched his saxophone since Tony's funeral. What's Kavita wearing? My mother asked. A sari, I guess. Tarun shrugged. The girls all wear white sari's. Bit Widowy, if you ask me. My mother did not contribute a joke of her own, but she looked thoughtful. The next time Kavita came over, my mother casually asked her whether she'd found her white sari yet. Kavita shook her head. Wait here. My mother went upstairs and came down shortly afterward, holding a flat box. It was a white chiffon sari, an ethereal cloud studded with twinkling sequins. I couldn't think of anything less appropriate for Kavita, who should have worn thick, sensible silk as rigid as armour. I happened to see this in a shop yesterday, my mother gushed. And I thought. Speaker 3 Oh, this would be absolutely. Speaker 2 Perfect for Kavi. The lie drooped. I could see her in the shop, tapping her finger on the counter. Show me everything you have in white. Kavita gazed at the cloud. Thanks, Auntie. You're so welcome. My mother sighed happily. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I must be crazy, but I just couldn't resist. Dusk was falling when we arrived at the school grounds, where rows of chairs had been set up under the open sky. Tarun, his speech folded in his suit pocket, peeled away from us to greet his friends, and my parents stood around, chatting to other parents they remembered from past school events. I found a group of kids my age, all younger siblings of graduates, and we decided to sneak into the school building. We wandered down empty corridors, poked our heads into dark, echoing classrooms. We tried the door to the headmaster's office, but it was locked 1 by 1. The others left to join their families until I found myself alone with a plump boy who eyed me sideways. Can you keep your mouth shut? He asked before producing a small bottle of rum. He threw back his head and drank ostentatiously, though I could tell that little actually passed his lips. He held the bottle out to me. The first sip set my mouth on fire, then mellowed into an almost incredible warmth. I took a second sip, then a third. He reached for the bottle, but I fended him off and sipped again. Hey. He cried in alarm. Speaker 3 Are you? Speaker 2 Crazy. He snatched the bottle from my hand and ran out. I was walking back to find my parents when I saw Kavita, who just arrived. She was dressed in a modest off white silk sari with a thick gold border, its lines as pristine as those in a new notebook. It suited her perfectly. She was with her parents, who were both shorter than her. Her mother wore an orange sari and carried a plastic bag instead of a purse. Her father wore an unremarkable shirt and pants. Kavita saw me and I waved to her. She did not wave back. I found my parents in their seats. My father was having trouble with his camera lens and my mother was helping. Maybe it was the heat of the rum in my belly, but my parents edges seemed softened. My mother teased my father about the camera, which was very old. My father feigned a fence. They giggled, then looked embarrassed. Yes, they were happy that night their brilliant boy was graduating. The lights went out in the darkness. The school choir sang something soft and incantatory. The headmaster climbed onto the stage and lighted a tall brass oil lamp. Then I saw Tarun, an unlit candle in his hands, walking toward him. He held his candle to the lamp, then walked back down, cupping the tiny flame. He moved up the aisle, lighting the candle of the student at the end of each row. The flame was passed down, student to student, candle to candle, and then, on some prearranged signal, the graduates turned to face their families. A sea of light. Tharun's speech, self effacing, funny, heartfelt, was a success. Afterward, the graduates, proudly holding their diplomas, posed for photos with their families. I'd never seen my father hug Tharun so many times. My mother looked as if she could not believe he existed. People kept coming up to congratulate them. My parents were suitably humble, but their eyes glittered with pride. United Front: The Family Confronts Kavita's Parents at Graduation At some point, I turned away from this tableau to see three figures approaching Kavita and her parents. They were flanking her, all three marching in military lockstep. Instantly I knew something was wrong. My father was the first to turn. I saw him adopt an expression of pre emptive modesty. He thought they were more well wishers. Then he recognized Kavita and his look changed to 1 of genuine welcome. For he really did like her. He liked her seriousness, her lack of frivolity. My mother turned next and she saw Kavita Sari before she saw her face. She looked hurt, but smiled bravely. Tarun was posing for a photograph with two other girls and hadn't seen Kavita yet. You must be Kavita's parents, my father said. So nice to finally meet you. I'm Ashok. This is my wife, Taruni. He didn't introduce himself or his wife. Beautiful ceremony, didn't you think? My mother asked. She turned to Kavita. That's a lovely sari, she said blandly. Kavita, to her credit, didn't flinch. We have an urgent matter to discuss with you, Kavita's father said. Oh, my father said your son. He is causing trouble, Kavita's father said. With our daughter. What kind of trouble? He's pulling her away from her studies. He is filling her head with nonsense. Such as? My mother asked, telling her exams are useless, telling her she should become a yoga teacher instead of an engineer Who needs another engineer? Things like this, he's saying to her. Ah, my father smiled, relaxing. I'm sure he's only joking, but he is not joking. Kavita's father said loudly, and a dozen heads turned, including Taruns. Quickly, he detached himself from his friends and came to stand beside us. He did not greet Kavita or her parents. Sorry, I don't understand, my father said. Yes. Tarun and Kavita have become friendly of late, but that's not a bad thing. Tarun takes his studies very seriously and I know Kavita does too. She is not prepared for her exams because of him, Kavita's father bellowed. She has never scored below 90% in any exam, but now she's struggling to even finish the portions. I'm sure, my father began. Kavita's father turned to Tarun. You are evil, he growled. An evil person. At this. My parents seemed to grow in stature on either side of us until they loomed like dark, threatening mountains. But Tarun spoke before they could. I never said anything like that to Kavita, Uncle, he said coolly. I don't know what you're talking about. We've studied together a few times, that's all. A few times, Kavita's father sputtered. You forced her to come to your house every day, and not only that, you forced her to do other things, dirty things. She has confessed everything. I didn't force her to do anything, Uncle Tarun said. And I don't know what she told you, but it was only a few times 3, maybe 4, wouldn't you say? He looked at my mother, who held his gaze for a prolonged second, then murmured. 3-4 about that. I waited for my father to correct them, but he didn't. Honestly, Uncle, I'm not sure why I'd ask Kavita to come to my house if not to study. Tarun went on smoothly. I mean, there's no other possible reason, is there? This was breathtakingly cruel, even for Tarun, but it didn't seem to register on Kavita's face. She just stood there, seemingly oblivious to the audience we'd attracted. You're lying, Kavita's father roared. My father drew himself up. That's enough, he said firmly. My son has explained himself. To my alarm, Kavita's father spotted me. You're the brother, aren't you? He hissed. Kavita says you're always there. She says you know, Kushal. My mother sounded worried. What would he know? The truth? He knows the truth. I could see my parents preparing to defend me, but I already knew what to do. Yes, uncle, I said. I'm always there. Kavita's father suddenly looked hopeful. And I heard them talking about the Grignard reaction. I said, That's chemistry, I think. What else? He cried. What else? Nothing else, uncle. We faced him down, shoulder to shoulder. Tarun, my mother, my father, me. We had bickered and sniped at one another all our lives, and it had taken Kavita, cranky, inscrutable Cavita to shock us into this violent harmony. Never again would my family be so united as when we sacrificed without a thought. This tall, lonely girl with her long braids. Good thing there's no knife nearby, hmm? My mother remarked, And then, astoundingly, my father responded. Too bad, because if you ask me, it's time we cut off this ridiculous conversation. Kavita's father's eyes flickered from one to the other. What he said, and something about the way he said it, some artless confusion, made me look sharply at Kavita, who, to my surprise, was looking back at me. There was nothing in her expression to indicate that anything significant was happening. There was, how shall I describe it, a room far back in her gaze in which she sat, indifferent, waiting for this storm to pass. As so many others had, Kavita's father turned and stalked away. A second later, Kavita followed him. Kavita's mother, who hadn't spoken a word, now reached into her plastic bag and pulled out a flat object. She thrust it at my mother, who lifted her hands a beat too late to receive it. The sari box fell to the ground, and a white cloud spread at our feet, twinkling. It wasn't just indifference I had seen on Kavita's face. It was something else too. Call it curiosity of a detached scientific kind, The kind that might make someone accept a sari from a stranger or tell a story about a knife just to see what would happen. Either way, it would have nothing to do with her. Aftermath and Rebellion: Kushal's Academic Failure and New Path Tarun ended up performing fairly well on his boards, scoring 87% overall. But the week after his results came out, he caused another uproar in our house by announcing that he was applying to universities in the United States. The deadline for most places had passed, but he done some research and found several that had rolling admission. He got into a small College in the state of Washington. The financial aid package was generous, but he would need to work on campus for 20 hours a week to support himself, an idea he seemed to relish. Tarun left Bangalow in late August. A month or so later, I went into his room. I saw the motorcycle helmet on a shelf in his cupboard but didn't touch it. Instead, I stacked up his notebooks, which were scattered everywhere at school. The next day, I let it be known that Tarun's notes were for sale, and by the end of the week I had 6 serious bidders. I sold his books for ₹5000 and with the money I paid an older neighborhood boy to supply me with bottles of rum, which I drank in secret sips for months. That year I failed my exams in a spectacular fashion, pushing my parents to the verge of despair. But before things could get really bad, the money ran out and with it my desire for such swift, extravagant ruin. Looking back, I can see that I was never that serious about it. Some people are built for a quieter decay. I was on 100 feet Rd. last week when I saw a woman entering the new Reebok showroom. 9 years had passed that I recognised her immediately. Kushal, she said when I walked in. You look different you 2 I said, and it was true. The braids were gone and her hair was cut into a Bob. It didn't suit her face at all but it did make her seem like another person, which may have been the point. Years Later: A Transformed Kavita and Her Dive Instructor Dream A sales girl came up with an armful of boxes. I have a race next month, Kavita explained. You're a runner? I asked. Marathons. It's just a hobby, though. What about you? Are you working? I'm in architecture, I said, which wasn't exactly a lie. I ferried plans about for my father, organized his schedule. I didn't add that it was the only job I'd managed to keep for more than six months. What's Tharun up to these days? Kavita asked. Not doing marathons, I promise you that. She laughed. Tharun's all right, I said. He's in the States now, works in consulting. And your parents, how are they? They're fine, I said. Your dad was learning the sax, right? Yes, but he stopped. And your mom was learning French? Yes, but she stopped too. Kavita laughed again. I didn't think I'd ever heard her laugh before, and now she'd done it twice. While we talked, she tried on various shoes. After she chose a pair, I followed her to the payment counter. So did you do your MBA? I asked. Yep, she said. Did it in Singapore, worked for a year, got burned out and quit. What do you do now? I'm getting certified as a dive instructor. A what? Scuba. Fuck off, That's cool, I said sincerely, and she laughed again. I'll take you on a dive someday, she said. You won't believe how peaceful it is, Kushal, when you're down there, nothing can touch you. She laughed with her shoes and I went home. I didn't tell my parents that I'd seen Kavita. We ate dinner as usual, then they settled on the sofa to watch TV, which they'd taken to doing for long hours before falling asleep. I went upstairs to Tharon's bedroom and took out his old helmet. I put it on and lowered the visor. The world instantly retreated, turned dim and soft and harmless. You could have walked right up to me then and hit me with a brick. I wouldn't have felt a thing. Thank You for Listening: The Writer's Voice Podcast Outro That was Matariva Jay reading her story, Laura's theme. This episode of The Writers Voice was produced by John Lemay. I'm Deborah Trisman. Thanks for listening.