by Sheela Chari
“Sorry to bother you, but I have a question and I think you might have the answer.”
“Really?” He smiled curiously. “You’ve got me hooked. What’s your question?”
Neela held up the magazine. “There’s a picture of a veena in here.” She turned the pages until she got to it. “Could you tell me if this was Veronica Wyvern’s veena?”
“Veronica Wyvern’s veena?” he repeated. He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, dear. You might not know, but Ronnie passed away many years ago in a terrible accident. Her veena was with her. So the answer is no.” He smiled politely as if the matter was closed.
Neela knew he was her only hope at this point, so she pressed on. “I know about her death,” she said, “and I know you were friends. Could you please check anyway? It’s very important to me.” She held the magazine up to him again.
“Child, I’m certain her veena wouldn’t be in a magazine today.” Still, he must have been curious, because he put on his glasses again and took the magazine from her.
Neela watched as Tannenbaum’s face changed from polite indifference to slow recognition. He stared a long time at the photo, then took off his glasses and looked at her. “How did you find this photo?” he asked.
“A photographer took it last month. Her kid is in my class.”
He shook his head. “But Ronnie died in a train crash with her veena. I don’t know how the photographer took this photo.”
“You’re sure this is her veena?” Neela asked.
“No doubt. See that peg box? It’s a special kind of dragon with two feet and a tail.”
“I know, a wyvern,” Neela said.
“Yes, exactly. Ronnie found the veena in India a long time ago, and I remember her telling me she felt like it had been made just for her. You know, because of her last name.”
As Neela listened, a mixture of wonder and dread crept through her. She felt an unmistakable thrill that came from knowing that she and her grandmother had owned an instrument with a legendary curse, which had belonged to a famous musician as well. In some small way, Neela had become part of a strange and mysterious history. Yet, the very thought of it made her sick to her stomach. Because it meant Hal had guessed correctly about the veena. He had been right all along.
“So it was hers,” Neela said, stunned. “It was really Veronica Wyvern’s veena.”
“And how did you say the photographer came to take this picture?” Tannenbaum asked.
“It’s a long story,” Neela said.
She did her best to explain, as Tannenbaum listened with interest. “I can’t believe her veena survived the crash,” he said. “It’s of great importance to me, not just because Ronnie was my friend, but because I have a scholarly interest in the history of Indian instruments. You see, that year when she went to India to perform, there was another reason for her trip. She was on her way to find out something significant about the instrument.”
“The curse,” Neela said quickly.
“The curse? Oh, yes, the curse of Parvati.” He chuckled. “That story has persisted for so long.”
“It isn’t true?” Neela asked.
He shrugged. “I’m a scholar. I have no interest in such things except in what they mean historically.”
“Then there was something else? Other than the curse?” Neela wasn’t quite sure what she meant.
Tannenbaum regarded Neela for a moment, as if he were noticing for the first time that he was talking to an eleven-year-old girl. “You sure you want to know all of this?” He looked around. “Did you come alone? Is your mother somewhere here?”
Neela pointed to the gardening aisle at the other end of the store. “She’s there,” she said. “And please, could you go on, if you don’t mind?”
He scratched his head. “It’s far too much information. I can’t get into it all. Maybe one of these days we can meet, along with Sudha, and talk more at length.”
Neela glanced at the gardening aisle and saw her mother with an armload of books. Neela’s time was about to run out.
“Please!” Neela’s voice was urgent. “Please tell me, what was it that Veronica so badly wanted to know? I’m leaving for India tomorrow. I might be able to get the veena back, but I need to know as much as I can.”
“Well, I’d have to start with Guru,” Tannenbaum said.
“I know who he was. The veena-maker,” Neela said, one eye on her mother.
“And then I’d have to tell you what a Guru original was,” he went on.
“I know all about that, too,” Neela said. She saw her mother put several books back on the shelves. In her hand were two. Was she ready to buy them?
“Oh.” Tannenbaum was surprised. “Well, if you know all that, then I can tell you that out of the dozen or so Guru originals still circulating out there, there is great interest in locating the first one he made, the original Guru original, if you will.”
“The original Guru original?” Neela repeated.
“What, you know about that, too?”
She shook her head. She was still watching her mother, who had now put back the two books in her hand, as well. What was she going to do? Not buy anything at all? If only Professor Tannenbaum would hurry. “Please. Why is the original Guru original important?”
“Well, it’s the first one,” Tannenbaum said. “It could be worth crores of rupees—hundreds of thousands of dollars, we’re talking. But really, it’s the value of owning the first one made by Guru that makes that veena priceless.”
“And Veronica thought she owned the original Guru original?” Neela asked.
He shrugged. “That’s what she wanted to find out. She thought maybe the person who sold it to her might know. She was going to consult a veena historian, search records.”
Neela marveled over this new information. It seemed at every turn she was learning something more extraordinary about her grandmother’s veena.
“So do you think she had the first Guru original?” Neela asked.
He smiled. “I don’t know if there was any way of fully knowing. Dating rare instruments is a profession itself. First of all, you’d have to confirm that all the parts of the instrument are the original ones. Instruments can break and be repaired and have things replaced on them. That takes away some of the rareness factor. Once you verified that you have all the original parts, then I suppose you could look at the varnish, at the initials, at the other signs of craftsmanship to determine if what you have is a Guru original. But the original one? That’s beyond my expertise.” He looked past her. “I see someone; I think it’s your mom.”
Neela turned around to find her mother standing some feet away with two huge books in her hands. She seemed to recognize Tannebaum, from the way she looked at them.
“I’ll be there in a second,” Neela called to her mom.
Maybe because Tannenbaum was watching, Mrs. Krishnan went along without any questions. But Neela could see the checkout line was short. She had only a few more minutes left. “Thank you so much for your help, Professor Tannenbaum,” she said to him.
“No problem,” Tannenbaum said. “So you said you’re off to India tomorrow? And you think you might find this veena?” He looked at her curiously.
“That’s my hope,” she said.
“Well, let me know what happens. And be careful. That veena of Ronnie’s…” His voice trailed off.
“What?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I don’t know in the end how much happiness that knowledge brings. Sometimes when you have something precious, it interferes with the rest of your life. It’s like owning the Hope Diamond. You’re not going to wear it to the playground. In fact, you’ll stop going to the playground.” He shrugged. “So, good luck. And watch out for snapping strings.”
Somehow his remark didn’t bother her now, and she actually smiled. “I’ll try,” she said.
When they got outside the store, Mrs. Krishnan said, “What were you talking about
for so long with Alfred Tannenbaum? That was him, wasn’t it?”
Neela paused. If she told her mother what she had found out, her mother might not think her so strange for wanting her instrument back, now that she knew it once belonged to a famous musician and that it might be the original Guru original. And the more Neela kept from her mother, the harder it became to share the next big thing. But in some strange and selfish way, Neela wanted to hang on to this information for herself just a little longer.
So she said, “Nothing—just the concert last month and what I’m playing now.”
Mrs. Krishnan nodded agreeably as they walked to the car. As they were getting in, she said, “I’m glad, because for a moment, I was worried you were talking about your cursed veena with him.”
Neela gave a start, then tried to keep her voice steady. “Why would that be wrong?”
Her mother made a face. “It’s just not something to talk about with normal, sane people.”
“What are you saying? We’re not normal, sane people?”
“No, I meant the story about the curse is not normal or sane. And frankly, I’m not too keen on hearing about it. I’d like to think about something else, like our trip and seeing our family, not some creepy curse about a veena looking for a dead wife.”
“That’s not the story.”
“Even so.”
Meanwhile, a rage was building in Neela. “What if the veena did have something special about it, wouldn’t you want to know? What if we went to the Chennai Music Palace and it was there, like the story says? Isn’t there a part of you that—”
“No,” Mrs. Krishnan said. “Not one little tiny part. Actually, I don’t want to ever see that veena again. Let who ever has it, keep it. We’ll get a brand-new veena. Without any curses.”
Neela clenched her fists. She had been so close to telling her about what she knew. But now she was glad she hadn’t. Her mother would never understand or try to help Neela get the veena back. It was clear—whatever Neela would do when she got to India, it would be on her own.
When the day of the trip arrived, it came on one of the most blustery stretches of bad weather Boston had experienced in a long time.
“Drive slowly,” Mrs. Krishnan warned, as they made their way down the slippery roads toward the airport. “They haven’t plowed the streets yet.”
Outside, soft, billowy flakes fell from the sky, landing on the car windows. Neela watched the snow with a mixture of excitement and gloom. Here they were, at last going to India—possibly to see her veena again—which would be the most thrilling adventure of her life, if only they could make it to the airport.
“We should have left an hour ago,” Mrs. Krishnan announced, as if saying that could be useful to anyone.
Mr. Krishnan’s eyes were glued to the windshield. “If anyone talks to me now, I’ll crash the car.”
After an hour of more snow and Mr. Krishnan’s threats, the car pulled into Logan International Airport. Then, just as final boarding was announced, Neela and her family arrived at the gate, out of breath but all in one piece.
“What took you so long?” Pavi wanted to know. In spite of the bad weather, she and her family had arrived at the gate more than an hour earlier and were waiting dutifully. How did they do it? Neela wondered if they had ever been late to anything in their lives.
Neela said to her father, “Can I buy some chips?”
Mr. Krishnan looked at her as if she were insane. “The plane is leaving in three minutes. We don’t have time for chips.”
“Rats,” Neela said.
“I have two boxes of Cracker Jacks in my backpack,” Pavi offered.
“Cracker Jacks?” Neela repeated. “Man, that sucks,” she muttered under her breath.
They hurried onto the plane after showing their boarding passes to the flight attendant. Once Neela and Pavi were seated in a row away from their parents, Pavi asked, “So, are you getting cold feet?”
Neela looked at her in surprise. How did Pavi always know what she was thinking? “Did I tell you who Hal was?” she asked.
“Only a million times. I don’t get it. Who cares who he is?”
“Don’t you see?” Neela said miserably. “He’s the father. Of someone dead.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be an evil person,” Pavi said. “But even if that veena belonged to Veronica, it still was your grandmother’s, too, and then it was yours. And it’s not just any veena—it’s a Guru original, and it’s got a cool story behind it.”
Neela was about to interrupt, but Pavi held up a hand. “I get that you feel guilty about Hal being Veronica’s father. But she’s dead. And he’s not going to play that veena. He’s going to put it in some corner of his apartment, maybe light a bunch of candles, or I don’t know. But he’s not a musician. And instruments—you have to play them. You will. He won’t.”
Neela considered her friend’s words.
“Besides,” Pavi went on, “if that veena meant so much to him, why didn’t he call you and ask for it? Why did he steal it? And throw a rock at your house later? That makes him a creep in my book, no matter who his daughter was.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to do the same thing,” Neela said slowly. “I don’t want to be…dishonest. Does that make sense?”
“But you never stole the veena from anyone. All you’re doing is going to Govindar’s store and asking for the veena back.” She clasped her hands. “I mean, don’t you want to see if the veena is in the store? Aren’t you, like, dying of curiosity?”
Neela grinned. “Actually, yeah. It’s killing me, not knowing.” She sat back in her seat. Suddenly she felt better, as if a dark cloud that had been hanging over her had passed. “I guess, then, all I have to figure out now is how to get to the music store without my parents knowing.”
“I’m coming too,” Pavi said. “Since you don’t have your boyfriend to help you.”
Neela stared at her. “What are you talking about? Do you mean Matt?”
Pavi sniffed. “Why else did he go with you to the church? You didn’t even ask me.”
Neela sighed. “Because you don’t live in Arlington. There was no way you could come with me after school.” Then she added, “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Hmm,” Pavi said.
Neela opened her backpack and pulled out the magazine from Elizabeth Bones. She had brought all her “clues” with her: the magazine, the printout from the computer, the note that had been attached to the rock, and the photocopy of the wyvern embroidery. She figured the magazine would give her something to do until Pavi simmered down.
“What are you looking at?” Pavi asked gruffly, in spite of herself.
Neela held back a smile. She knew the magazine would do the trick.
“Boston Living,” she said. She turned so Pavi could look at it, too. As they read, Neela came to a quote by K.R. Mohan, who was described as a leading expert on South Indian instruments: The veena is one of India’s oldest and finest instruments. If one talks about the music of India, one must start with the veena.
And if one talks about the vanishing veena, Neela thought to herself, one must start with the Chennai Music Palace. And just like that, an idea popped into her head on how to get there.
“You hungry?” Pavi opened her backpack and handed Neela a box of Cracker Jack.
Neela looked inside the box of caramel-covered popcorn and peanuts. “What’s this?” She pulled out a shiny packet.
“It’s a prize. Don’t you know anything about Cracker Jacks? Every box has one. That’s why they’re so famous.”
Neela opened it. “Baseball cards,” she announced. “Just what I need.” Then she saw Pavi’s face. “Thanks, anyway,” she finished meekly. She realized she was being a pain.
The girls chewed on their Cracker Jacks, each thinking about their trip as the plane cleared the runway.
One stopover, two in-flight movies, several meals, a nap, and thirty hours later, Neela, Pavi, and their families landed in Chenn
ai, India, sometime after the stroke of midnight.
The air was balmy as Neela and her family stepped outside the airport building and were greeted at the curb by Ravi, her grandparents’ driver. He led them to the car, and they set off for home. The streets were bumpy and crowded with motorcycles and lorries, even in the middle of the night. Neela stared out the window as they drove past darkened stores and the silhouettes of coconut trees framing the night sky.
Neela’s grandparents lived in a bungalow on a quiet, tree-lined road in the heart of Chennai. Their house had been built more than three decades ago, but it had been updated over the years with screened windows, a new fridge, microwave, and washing machine. In the bathroom, her grandparents had even installed a ceramic bathtub, something unheard of in their neighborhood, to make the house more comfortable for Neela and Sree.
It was strange to arrive at her grandparents’ house without Lalitha Patti there to greet them. Instead it was just Thatha, Neela’s grandfather, who waited at the door as the car pulled into the gated driveway. He helped them with their beds, and without much talk, everyone fell asleep until morning.
At breakfast the next day, the family sat at the table while Thatha served idlis, or rice dumplings, and coffee. Neela’s father asked him why he didn’t go to Arun’s wedding with Lalitha Patti.
“I went for the first half of the celebrations and came back. Someone had to be here to let you in when you arrived. Besides, weddings are too much noise and confusion for me.” Since his stroke last year, Neela’s grandfather declared himself “good as new.” Still, he rarely went out of town for more than a day or two.
“When is Patti coming back, Thatha?” Neela asked.
“This evening,” he said. “Soon.”
Just then, Neela heard the sound of the front gate opening. At last! She had been waiting for that sound all morning. While everyone was talking, she slipped outside, the address to the music store tucked in her hand.
As it turned out, Pavi’s family was staying only about twenty minutes away in an area of Chennai known as Royapettah. The good news was that the Chennai Music Palace was in the same neighborhood, only a few streets away from Pavi’s house. And now the way to Pavi’s, as well as to the store, had just arrived. Sure enough, Ravi was out front near her grandparents’ car, with a bucket and sponge. He beamed when he saw her.
