by Sheela Chari
Hal nodded. “Ronnie knew right away it was a wyvern.”
“Sorry to be rude,” Mrs. Krishnan said, “but who exactly are you?”
“That’s Hal,” Neela said. “Veronica Wyvern’s father and Lynne’s grandfather.”
While her parents digested this piece of news, Neela heard Lalitha Patti draw in her breath. Surprised, Neela glanced at her, when she suddenly remembered her conversation with Lynne at the store: He tried, he really did, but your grandmother said no. Her grandmother had known about Hal. Just how, Neela would find out later.
“We found the book inside a secret compartment of a desk at the store,” she went on. “I suspect the book is Mohan’s. That’s why he stole the veena and mailed it to the store, using my name on the package. He knew the moment he saw it in Lynne’s apartment, the veena was the original Guru original.”
“I didn’t know right away,” Mohan blurted, then stopped in horror, realizing he had just incriminated himself. Suddenly he looked completely deflated, as if the air had gone out of him.
“It took me years to find that veena,” he said at last. “If you knew who to talk to in Thanjavur—veena makers, vendors, and musicians—they had discussed the possibility for years, that the cursed veena was also the first instrument Guru made. They speculated about the value of the instrument. But no one knew for sure. Then I found that book in a tiny bookstore in Thanjavur, and it contained the first recorded information of Guru’s work.”
“What about the photograph of Parvati?” Neela asked.
“That was the other proof I had, which showed her as a performer at the Mysore Palace. It confirmed she was a player and that she owned this same instrument. That photograph came from a friend of a friend who acquires old photos of the Mysore Palace.”
“What were you planning to do with all this proof?” Mrs. Krishnan asked.
“Originally I wanted to get the veena appraised. There are people who specialize in dating instruments. But now it doesn’t matter anymore. I just wanted the instrument.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?” Govindar asked softly.
Mohan’s voice was ragged. “You would have sold the veena. You did before.”
“But weren’t you going to sell it yourself?” Lalitha Patti asked.
“Of course not!” Mohan cried. “Don’t you see? It’s rare, a one-of-a-kind. It’s meant to be played on. I would do that. I would never sell the veena.”
“You play the veena?” Neela asked in surprise.
“Of course,” Mohan said.
They stared at each other, and for a moment it seemed like there was a strange connection between them. For the first time Neela noticed how young Mohan was.
Just then an announcement blared over the loudspeakers, reminding Neela where they were and what was going on—that Mohan had almost pushed her off a moving train, and that she had forced a confession out of him in front of two police officers. Which was about as bad as it could get, unless, of course, you fell off a moving train. And just like that, the moment passed.
“So if he stole the veena,” one of the police officers said, “are you pressing charges?” He looked expectantly at Mr. Krishnan, who had called them in the first place.
“Charges?” Mohan cried. “For what?”
“Stealing, kidnapping,” Pavi said. “Being a horse’s behind.”
“Pavi!” Neela mumbled.
“If I’m getting charged, what about him?” Mohan pointed to Hal. “He stole the veena from Neela in the first place. And let’s not forget someone else.” He turned to his father. “Tell them,” he said bitterly. “Tell them about the ‘curse’ and the Chennai Music Palace.”
“Mohan,” Govindar murmured.
“If you won’t,” he said,” I will.”
“I think we should stop right here,” Govindar said. “I made a mistake, one I regret. But think of all I’ve done after that, how I’ve led an honest life as a businessman.”
“That’s the trouble with you, Pa,” Mohan said. “You’ve always been a businessman, and just that. When I was twelve and I asked for the veena, you could have said yes. When I asked for veena lessons, you could have said yes. That day I stole the veena from the customer who bought it, and you found out, you could have done the right thing.”
“And what would that have been?” Govindar barked. “When you have an angry customer in front of you, demanding to know why the veena she paid good hard money for is back in your store, what should I say? My son snuck into your house and stole it? Because he wanted it? I used the story of the curse to cover up for what you did.”
“Like she would believe that,” Mohan said.
“She didn’t ask for the veena back, did she?” he asked. “She took a different veena home that day.”
“But it didn’t end there,” Mohan said to everyone else.
“Mohan, please,” Govindar said, his voice pleading.
“No, the story of the curse attracted everyone’s interest,” Mohan said. “We had people drop in, newspapers write about us, and tons of other sales. The curse lived on but with a twist—the Chennai Music Palace was cursed, too, because now not only could no one own this instrument, the store couldn’t sell it away, either!”
“So you went on stealing the veena from customers who bought it, just to make people think the store was part of the curse?” Neela said in shock.
“No, but my father lied to make it seem that way,” Mohan said. “He made up stories about how the veena was sold and reappeared back in the store. He told them to customers, to the newspaper, to anyone who wanted to hear. It was the same curse everyone knew about, only with the Chennai Music Palace built into it.”
“I don’t get it,” Neela said. “The Chennai Music Palace was always part of the curse. It’s the place Guru sold the instrument and—”
“No, it isn’t,” Mohan said. “That’s all part of my father’s lie. Guru never sold the veena to our store. Guru sold that veena to someone else long before—look at the date on that photograph of Parvati: 1903. Guru sold it soon after that. But the veena came to our store only about twenty years ago, from a different vendor. If you ask anyone living in Thanjavur before then, they will tell you about a curse, all right. They’ll tell you how gifted Parvati was, how the veena was decorated with her own wedding jewels. They’ll tell you she was the darling of the Mysore court, how she turned thin and sickly when she lost the veena, and never forgave Guru. They’ll tell you the curse wore on, and no one could play that instrument again. But what they will not tell you about is Chennai Music Palace. That part was my father, fabricated and passed on by word of mouth, starting twenty years ago. And the updated curse was such a success that this is the only version you will probably hear today.”
Govindar looked embarrassed. “It was publicity. And it did generate more interest in our store. But I never did anything disreputable. And when Veronica Wyvern came one day to the store and bought the instrument—”
“For a hugely inflated price,” Mohan added.
Govindar glared at him. “After she bought the instrument, we didn’t need that kind of publicity anymore. The store was doing just fine on its own. And yes, looking back, I’m embarrassed by what I did.” He turned to Mohan. “But I never resorted to stealing.”
As the two of them spoke, Neela stared at the circle of people standing around her with fresh eyes. Each person here, including herself, and even her parents in their own implausible ways, had engaged in some kind of deception. She thought of how she had lied, spied on people, and broken into a church computer, just for a chance to get closer to the veena.
She looked at the veena case now. It was monstrous, but she couldn’t help thinking, just one simple tug at the handle, a few steps back, and she could sneak off with the veena, she could hop on any one of the trains departing around them, just as Mohan had tried to do. She imagined herself as she always did, fast-forwarded in time until she was all grown up. She would be giving concerts in
India and around the world. And she would be performing on the legendary veena, famous for being cursed and for being the original Guru original, with its unmatched sound, its haunting tone, and not to mention, its hefty price tag. She and her instrument would be the envy of veena connoisseurs everywhere.
But then, afterward, what would she do when the concerts were over? She would live a life of paranoia, as Veronica had, wondering who might steal the veena next. Or else she’d store the veena away in a bank vault, where it would never be played again.
Govindar now turned to look at everyone. “Neela, Mr. Wyvern, the rest of you, I suggest you go home and decide what is to be done with the instrument. It seems like Mohan and I have many things to work out. First, we must make a trip to the police station.”
Mohan was stunned. “The police station? Why?”
“To show our customers that we are making honest people of ourselves,” Govindar declared.
“Don’t hand the veena over to them,” Mohan pleaded. “I panicked. I shouldn’t have run. Let’s get it appraised, find out its real worth. And there’s more.”
“What more can there be?” Govindar asked, sounding tired. “Come, let’s go.” He signaled to the police officers to help him.
“You have no idea what you’re giving away.” Mohan’s voice could be heard as the police officers led him away with Govindar following. “We’ll see who has the last laugh.…”
“Well, that was weird,” Pavi said.
“Did you really jump the train?” Mrs. Krishnan asked Neela.
“She totally did,” Pavi said. “You should’ve seen it. She was cool.”
“I was so scared,” Lynne said. “You must really care for the veena to risk your life.”
“Yeah,” Neela said uncertainly. She hadn’t planned to risk anything—it just happened. Before she knew it, she was dangling for her life until the ticket collector rescued her. Hearing Lynne now made Neela feel strange.
Mrs. Krishnan shuddered. “Do you know how many people are killed doing that?”
“On that note,” Mr. Krishnan said, “let’s go home.”
“But what about the veena?” Pavi asked. “We have to decide who gets to keep it.”
Mr. Krishnan stopped. “Oh.” He looked uncertainly at Neela, Hal, and Lynne.
“But Prasant, he stole the veena from Neela,” Mrs. Krishnan said in a low voice.
“Lakshmi,” Mr. Krishnan said.
“It’s okay,” Hal said wearily. “I did steal it. All I can say is that I’m sorry. If you could only see in my heart how deeply sorry I am.”
Why was Hal being nice now? Neela felt a queasiness in her stomach. At that moment, though, Hal’s eyes were fixed on the veena case. He grasped Lynne’s hand and said, “Strange that the veena made it back to Chennai. Wonder what your mom would have to say about that.”
“She’d say that the veena isn’t ours anymore,” Lynne said softly.
In the din of the bustling train station, a silence fell on the party of people gathered around the instrument case. No one knew what to say, but they were all stirred by the same feeling of regret. Some moments later, Neela stepped forward; the effort was almost unbearable. But the decision was so clear she didn’t stop to confirm it with her grandmother or parents. She wheeled the instrument case to Lynne and put the handle in her hand.
“Here,” Neela said. “It belonged to you first.”
“What?” Lynne stared at her.
“Oh, Neela, are you sure?” Mrs. Krishnan whispered. She looked ready to cry.
“I can buy another veena,” Neela said, carefully and meaningfully.
Her grandmother nodded in silent approval.
“Unbelievable,” Hal said, stunned. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Lynne said quietly. “But are you really sure?”
Neela thought if someone asked her one more time, she would bolt down the terminal, clutching the instrument case in her hands. How could anyone be sure of anything? But the stomachache had subsided, and her palms didn’t tingle anymore. So she said, “Yes, I’m sure. But you better hurry off or I might change my mind.”
A few minutes later, Lynne, Hal, and the veena were gone.
Mr. Krishnan gathered Neela in his arms. “That was tremendous. After so many people trying to steal that instrument, you’re the first one to give it up.”
“You did the right thing when I couldn’t,” Lalitha Patti said.
Mrs. Krishnan nodded. “So courageous, Neela.”
Neela didn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s go home.”
As they walked back to their car, Pavi pulled Neela back. “What you did was totally cool. And I know how hard it was to give that veena up, after everything that’s happened.”
Neela flushed under Pavi’s praise. It was different to hear it from her.
Pavi went on. “Listen, I’ve been kind of a twerp about Matt. I know he helped you a lot, and you wouldn’t have figured things out without him.”
“You helped, too, Pavi.”
“I just didn’t want things to change because of him. Because, you know, we barely get to see each other during the school year.” Pavi’s voice was gruff, but Neela knew it was because her friend always had a hard time sharing her feelings.
“But things won’t change,” Neela said. “And Matt’s nice. You’d like him.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. And anyway, we’ll always have time to do stuff on the weekends and on the way to veena lessons.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you,” Pavi said. “I’m quitting when we get back.”
“What?” Neela was stunned. “I thought you loved the veena.”
Pavi shook her head. “Dude, love is kind of a strong word. Next fall my coach thinks I might be able to make the swim team. So my afternoons are shot—I’ll be at the pool every day.”
“Wow.” Neela took a moment to let it sink in. “What about Sudha Auntie? She’ll probably warn you that swimming leads to indigestion!”
Pavi laughed. “Yeah, I guess I’ll risk it.”
They continued walking. Neela felt sad thinking about Pavi no longer being there at the lessons. There would be no more trips together to Sudha Auntie’s house. And no one to snicker with behind their teacher’s back. But Pavi really liked swimming. And she had to do what was right for her, even if it meant giving up something else.
They reached the end of the platform, when a police officer stopped in front of them. “Pavitra!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I was involved with that veena escapade,” she said. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
The police officer nodded, still looking surprised.
“They went that way.” Pavi pointed in the direction Govindar and Mohan had left with the other officers. “But they left a long time back.”
“Then I should hurry. Take care.” The police officer dashed off.
“Who was that?” Neela asked.
“That’s my uncle, the assistant police commissioner.” Pavi saw Neela staring at her. “What, you thought I made that up?”
That evening, Neela and her family sat on the rooftop, where several containers of jasmine were in bloom, filling the air with a soft, fruity fragrance. Neela and Sree drank Ovaltine, while the adults drank weak tea, and everyone talked about the events of the day. By then, Neela had also filled them in on the other details that had unfolded in Arlington.
“So, do you still think you did the right thing?” her grandmother asked. “Are you angry at that girl for taking your veena?”
“Lynne didn’t take my veena, I gave it to her,” Neela said. “And…I sort of had to do it. It wasn’t just because she needed the veena. It was because…I didn’t want to be like Mohan. He did so many wrong things because he wasn’t happy with what he had. But I did wrong things, too. All because of an instrument.”
“You’re being hard on yourself,” Lalitha Patti said. “I would not put
you in the same category as Mohan.”
“But maybe I would turn into someone like him,” Neela said. “There’s something about that veena. Everyone who’s had it or been near it starts to do dishonest things.”
“That’s true,” Mr. Krishnan said. “From Hal to Lynne to Mohan.”
“And Guru,” Neela said. “Don’t forget him. He’s the one who sold it in the first place without telling his wife.”
“Yes,” her father said. “And you. And my mother. Let’s not forget the two of you.”
“And us,” Neela said. She looked at her grandmother, who at that moment turned away, as if she sensed the question that had formed in Neela’s mind.
Instead, Lalitha Patti set down her cup and said, “Why don’t we throw in the customs people at the airport while we’re at it. Shame on them for not flagging a haunted instrument!”
“And Sree!” Neela said.
“And me!” he said, not knowing what he was including himself in.
Neela glanced at her mother, who had been quiet throughout. She saw her get up and walk around the rooftop, stopping from container to container to look at the flowers in bloom. Neela went to join her.
In her hand, Mrs. Krishnan held a few stray jasmine flowers, which she gave to Neela. “The scent of jasmine always reminds me of being a little girl,” she said. “I would wear flowers in my hair every day in the evenings.”
Neela held the sweet flowers up to her face and breathed in deeply. Above her, stars were appearing one by one in the darkening sky. Mrs. Krishnan began weaving the jasmine into her daughter’s hair.
“I was thinking over the past couple of months,” she said, “how we seemed to be misunderstanding each other.”
“You should have told me the story about the veena,” Neela said. “Not because it would have made a difference, but because it was important for me to know.”
“I see that now. It’s just that I could tell you were keeping things from me, and you just felt so…distant.”
