by Sheela Chari
“You can use mine,” Ravi said. He handed her his cell phone.
“What are you going to say?” Lynne asked while Neela dialed. “Your son locked us inside your store, and now he’s headed to the station?”
“Something like that,” Neela said.
Govindar’s phone rang several times until the answering machine kicked in. Neela heard the beep and decided it was better to leave him something. “Hi, this is Neela Krishnan. We came to meet you in the store today, but your son, Mohan, tried to stop us. He is now headed to the train station. We are trying to stop him. I thought you should know.” She hung up the phone.
Pavi stared at her. “What kind of message is that? You didn’t even say anything about him locking us up.”
“Or the veena,” Lynne added.
Neela shrugged. “I didn’t want to accuse his son on the machine. Kind of awkward.”
“But he really did lock us up!” Pavi exclaimed.
“Details,” Neela said. She opened her backpack. “Now we just have to figure out what these things are.” She pulled out the book and photograph. The photograph was obscured by the oilskin cover, so Neela carefully undid it.
“Oh,” Lynne exclaimed when Neela was done. The photograph was black and white and seemed very old. It was of a woman veena-player seated on a rug on the floor. “Do you mind?” Lynne took the photo from Neela. “It looks just like some of my grandfather’s old photographs on my father’s side.” She turned it over gingerly. Parvati, Mysore Palace, 1903, it read.
“Parvati,” Neela said. Lynne turned the photograph back to the front. Parvati was dressed in a traditional sari, with her hair in a long braid, covered in flowers, and diamond earrings, a necklace, and a nose ring adorning her face. She held a veena across her arms and looked very serious. “Is it the same veena?” Neela asked, squinting. “Looks like it, but it’s hard to tell.”
Lynne nodded. “I know from what my grandfather told me, people didn’t get many photographs taken back then. See, this was taken at the Mysore Palace. It must have been commissioned. She must have performed there.”
Ravi suddenly slammed the brakes, causing the girls to jerk forward.
“Sorry,” he cried, glancing back at them to see if they were okay. Neela looked at the road and saw a flock of goats crossing in front of them. “Stupid farmers,” Ravi muttered. “They act like they’re still in the village. What, they don’t notice twenty lorries coming down the road? Not to mention, me?”
When the car began to move again, Neela turned her attention to the book. The binding was coming apart at the seams, so she opened it carefully. “Look, it’s printed in Thanjavur in 1948.” As she thumbed through the pages, Lynne kept looking at the old photograph, murmuring to herself.
“I love photos,” she said. “There’s so little I know about my mom. Even though my grandfather went ballistic with this whole veena thing, he hardly ever talks about her or my dad. So all I have are photos.”
“Is that why you wanted a camera?” Neela asked.
Lynne nodded. “I was always interested in photography. But I’ve never really had a good camera…until now.” She flushed. “My grandfather isn’t, uh, well off. He gets some money from his retirement, but it’s not a whole lot, so we’re always trying to save up. Also, he doesn’t believe in buying ‘expensive gadgets.’ That’s why we don’t even have a computer.”
“You don’t have a computer?” Pavi tried to keep the astonishment from her voice. Neela knew that, for Pavi, a computer was like an additional limb.
“Yeah. It’s really annoying. I can’t go on the Web except at the library. I have to do everything by hand or type it out in the computer lab.”
Neela thought for a moment. “So that’s why you were looking up your mom in the library that day.”
“Yeah. I wanted to see if I could find out more about her veena, and if the one my grandfather took was really hers or not.”
“Hey,” Pavi said, “was that rock with the newspaper cutout note from you?”
Lynne looked sheepish. “I had to think of something to make you stop asking around at the church. By then the veena was stolen again, and I didn’t have it to give back to you.”
“And I guess you misspelled ‘consequence’ on purpose,” Neela said.
Lynne nodded. “I also made the boot prints with my grandfather’s snow boots.”
“And the teakettle!” Pavi exclaimed.
“Oh, right,” Neela said. “Wait, that was you, too?”
Lynne sighed and nodded again. “You know Mary, right?”
“The church office woman,” Neela said.
“Yeah, well, she’s not just that. She’s my grandfather’s cousin. Twice removed or something.”
Pavi hit her head with her hand. “You’re kidding. Who else are you related to? Mohan?”
“Very funny. That’s how we know about the church, and why my grandfather started volunteering there, because he knew Mary. In fact, we used her address for the school so I could switch districts. She didn’t like the whole idea at first, but finally agreed to it.”
“So she knew Hal took the veena?” Neela asked.
“No. But as soon as you came by and described what happened, she suspected him.”
“And the teakettle? Did your grandfather take it?”
“No,” Lynne said, squeezing her eyes shut. “That was me. I hid it inside the kitchen to make it look like it disappeared. I thought it would throw everyone off Grandpa’s track. Because Mary knew he wouldn’t take the teakettle. I’ll have to return it to her when I get back.” She looked at Neela. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve created a mess. I can see why you’d be so mad at me.”
Neela thought for a moment. “Actually, I’m not mad anymore. Because we’re chasing down the real thief in India now. Together. Though who would have guessed?”
They smiled at each other.
Neela returned her attention to the book. It was exactly as the title said, a chronology of veena makers. She didn’t recognize a single name until she came to a section on Guru, bookmarked with a slip of paper.
Guru was a renowned veena maker whose earlier work was done in collaboration with his father, also a veena maker for many years (See L.V. Ramana and Son).
In 1902, he married the veena player Parvati, and is said to have made his first solo veena for her. In crafting this veena, Guru departed from his father’s traditional style, adopting a European design for the peg box (medieval dragon). It is also speculated that Guru adorned this peg box with jewels from his wife’s wedding set, but no records have confirmed this.
While the exact date of this first veena cannot be ascertained, the date of Guru’s marriage can be used as an approximation. Legend has it the veena was sold preemptively, and lost from the Guru household thereupon.
And just like that, an idea formed in Neela’s head.
“Of course!” she said. “I know what Mohan had this book for.”
“What are you talking about?” Pavi asked. “Tell us!”
“I—” Neela started, and then before she could say more, she glanced out the window and saw the clock tower of the train station rise before them. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “We’re here.”
It was a Saturday evening, and the Central Train Station was jam-packed with people. Neela kept her eyes open, searching for signs of Mohan, as she and the rest of the group headed for the Thanjavur platform.
She’d had no chance to explain herself, because at that moment, Ravi pulled into a parking spot, and they all had to jump out of the car immediately. Now they were inside, she had a moment to think, and the conversation she’d had with Tannenbaum a few days ago came rushing back to her. Mohan the veena expert, Mohan who wanted to be a musician, and Mohan who said the veena was a dying art—he was after the same answer as Veronica Wyvern, all these years later!
How it fit with the curse and the veena returning to the store, she still didn’t know. But she would worry about that part later.
Right now, they had to find Mohan.
Just then, Neela spotted a figure up ahead dragging something along the floor that was nearly his size, a shape so familiar she caught her breath. “Hey!” she shouted. She started running toward Mohan, jumping over someone’s suitcase and almost running head-on into a man carrying a hen inside a wire cage.
As soon as Mohan saw her, he took off in the opposite direction. Faster and faster he ran, weaving in and out of people drifting along the platform, the veena case rocking wildly behind him. He moved on, heading toward a train that was about to depart. To her horror, Neela saw that it was a train bound for Thanjavur, his train, and he was only a few feet away. With his speed he would make it to the train before they did. Neela willed her legs to move faster, as on the days she raced to class, but this time she had to make it count. He was almost there. She could see Lynne and Pavi now in her periphery, dodging passengers, all of them scrambling to beat Mohan to the train.
With a burst of speed, Neela tore down the last few yards, just as Mohan climbed aboard. Without thinking, Neela leaped onto the steps of the train car.
Mohan stared at her in surprise. “Get off the train!” he said. “You have no ticket.” He stood between her and the veena case.
“Give me back my veena,” Neela said. “You’re stealing it!”
“Suit yourself,” he declared. “They’ll kick you off soon enough.” With that he turned to enter the car, but Neela lunged forward to grab on to the hard plastic shell of the case. Around them, she heard the sound of the train whistle.
“Let go!” Mohan hissed. With a monstrous heave, he pulled the veena out of her hands, sending her reeling. She took a step back to steady herself and suddenly felt the ground disappear under her. She had fallen into the gap between the train and the platform, with her upper half still inside the train and her legs dangling over the edge.
“Neela!” Pavi shouted from the platform. “Get out of there! The train’s about to start.”
Neela tried desperately to gain a foothold. Her hands clawed the floor while she scrambled to stand up. Beneath her, she saw the ground starting to slide away, and felt the edge of the platform grazing the back of her legs. The train had started to move.
On the platform, Pavi screamed, “Stop the train!” By now, a small audience had formed a circle around Pavi, watching in horror as the train began leaving the station with a young girl wedged in between the platform and train. “Stop the train!” everyone shouted.
Neela felt dizzy, her fingers unable to catch a hold of anything on the cold, metallic floor of the train compartment. Then suddenly she saw a pair of black buffed boots standing squarely in front of her, as two powerful arms pulled her up in one swift motion and planted her, feet-first, on the floor that had been inches from her face only seconds before. She stared up at a tall man with carefully combed hair, a groomed mustache, and a double-breasted uniform with shiny buckles and stripes on the arms. He was the train’s ticket collector.
“Are you okay?” he asked in Tamil.
Neela nodded, still dazed. In the background, Mohan tried to slink away, but with such a large instrument it was impossible. The ticket collector’s white-gloved finger shot out, pointing to Mohan. “You, stay put,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers at someone down the aisle and shouted, “Stop the train!” Another conductor nodded and picked up a white receiver at the front of the car. A few moments later, the wheels of the train ground to a halt.
“So, what is happening here?” the ticket collector asked.
“She tried to jump the train,” Mohan said.
“That’s not true!” Neela was indignant. “He stole my veena.”
The ticket collector looked at the canvas-covered case behind him. “This is a veena?” he asked.
“It’s my veena,” Mohan said. “She’s obviously a vagabond off the street.”
The ticket collector looked at Neela’s Disney World T-shirt. “She does not look like a vagabond to me. Do you have tickets, both of you?”
“Yes,” Mohan said quickly, brandishing his. “I’m a valid passenger. She is not.”
“I don’t have a ticket, but I was trying to stop him from stealing my instrument.”
The ticket collector looked at them. “Let us settle this on the platform. Out, both of you.”
Mohan protested loudly, but a security guard appeared and forced him off the train with Neela.
“Frankly, I do not care who the veena belongs to,” the ticket collector said, “but we cannot have young girls jumping onto the trains. And while you have a ticket, sir, I dislike you already for not rushing to the aid of this girl. When she was hanging on for her life, why did you not help her?” He glared at Mohan.
“It happened so fast,” Mohan said. “I did not have the chance before you stepped in.”
By now, Lynne, Pavi, and Ravi had joined them.
“Well, you will have to settle this on your own time,” the ticket collector continued. “We cannot hold the train for you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mohan sputtered. “You have to let me back on the train with my veena.”
“But it’s not his!” Neela cried.
The ticket collector shook his head. “Who do I believe?”
“I think I can help you with that.”
Everyone turned in the direction of the voice. A man had appeared from around the corner, accompanied by two police officers. He was thin, with hair graying along the sides of his head. When Neela saw him, she immediately guessed who he was. What was more astonishing was that directly behind him and the two officers were Neela’s parents, Lalitha Patti, and Hal.
“Mom, Dad, Patti!” Neela exclaimed.
“Pa,” Mohan said at the same time. “What are you doing here?”
Govindar looked gravely at his son. “The more important question is what are you doing here with that veena?”
Everyone began talking at once. Neela couldn’t help staring at Hal, who went straight to Lynne. After all these months, it was bizarre to see him…in India.
“How did you know we were here?” Neela asked her family.
“Govindar called to say you’d left a message,” Lalitha Patti said, her arm around Neela in a hug.
“We called the police and came here,” Mr. Krishnan said. “Computer games, ha.”
“You’re in big trouble,” Mrs. Krishnan warned, her eyes moist. Her glance fell on Ravi. “You too.” Ravi gulped silently.
Behind the group, the ticket collector jumped back on the train. Neela waved at him, because, after all, he had saved her life. He nodded as the rush of the wheels whirred past and the train disappeared into the distance. Mohan was watching the train, too. Neela could tell from his face that he wished he were on it. But it was hard to feel any sympathy for him.
“Mohan, tell me why you’re here with the veena,” Govindar said.
“He tried to steal it,” Neela said. “He locked us in the store so he could get away.”
“She’s lying.” Mohan’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Neela slipped the lock open,” Pavi said. “That’s how we escaped.”
“Mohan would have got away on the train if Neela hadn’t jumped aboard,” Lynne added. “He even tried to push her off, but the ticket collector stopped him in time.”
“What?” Mrs. Krishnan exclaimed.
Govindar stared at his son. “Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me you have more sense.”
Mohan clenched his fists and said nothing. Seeing him with his father strangely reminded Neela of her mother and her. It seemed there were some conversations every family had. This was the one where the parent was suggesting the kid was an idiot. Although Mohan was hardly one. Because if Neela and her friends had come just a few minutes later, he would have been on that train and gone forever.
“I thought you had forgotten about this veena,” Govindar said. “It is just an ordinary instrument, and—”
“But it isn’t,” Neela interrupted.
He
stopped. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is definitely not an ordinary veena,” she said. “In fact, Mohan knows exactly how extraordinary it is.”
Pavi sighed. “Not the curse again,” she muttered.
“No, something else.” Neela pointed to the canvas case. “That’s a Guru original.”
Lalitha Patti said, “But we already know that, Neela.”
“Yes, but it’s not any Guru original. It’s the first one, the original one.” Neela saw the shock register on Mohan’s face, confirming that what she said was true. She pulled out the book from her backpack. “Professor Tannenbaum told me about the original Guru original. Veronica Wyvern came to India with the hope of finding out if she owned it. She had a hunch; she had heard about the curse, but she wasn’t sure if her veena was the first one Guru made.”
“But what’s the big deal if it was the first?” Pavi asked.
“It means it’s a rare instrument,” Neela explained, “and could be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. So long as it’s intact and with all its original pieces.”
There was a silence as this information registered in the minds of everyone.
“So this is Guru’s first veena?” Lalitha Patti asked.
“Neela, are you sure?” Mr. Krishnan said.
She turned to the bookmarked page. “Guru was the son of a veena maker. He had made many veenas with his dad. But this was the first one he made all by himself. And maybe because of that, he wanted to shake things up, be a little different. So he made the peg box European-looking, and chose a medieval dragon.”
“A wyvern,” Hal said.
When he spoke, a range of emotions played through Neela: outrage, bewilderment, guilt. Why should I feel guilty? she thought. But all she said was, “Yes, a wyvern.”
She remembered then what Professor Tannenbaum had told her. “We can’t tell just by looking, though,” she said. “You would need an expert, someone to look at the varnish, the markings, and make sure that all the parts of the veena are original. But the peg box is a good starting place. Because how many veenas have you seen with a wyvern?” She was proud of herself for remembering so much. She could see from everyone’s faces that they were taking her seriously. Even Mohan was looking at her with grudging respect.
