by Sheela Chari
“I didn’t know how to tell you what was happening,” Neela said, “without you freaking out about it.”
Mrs. Krishnan smiled. “Okay, I’ll try not to ‘freak out’ so much from now on.”
As Mrs. Krishnan continued adding more flowers to her hair, Neela wondered what Lynne and her grandfather were doing, if they were at home, looking at the veena that was now theirs. No more sneaking around, no more guilt. Just memories and photographs and the touch of sleek jackwood.
Neela’s heart ached. She would miss that veena. It would be like a best friend that moved away and never came back. But she would get over it.
“One thing I wanted to ask,” Mrs. Krishnan said. “Where did you ever learn to slide open a lock?”
“My friend taught me,” Neela said cautiously. “We were talking about it at school one day.” She still didn’t mention Matt by name.
“Who? Penny?”
Neela took a breath. She didn’t want to be dishonest anymore. “No, Matt,” she said.
Mrs. Krishnan was silent for a moment, then continued with the flowers. “Is this that boy who sits next to you? The one who’s always late?”
“Yeah, but—” Neela was about to get annoyed that this was the only way her mother could characterize him, but Mrs. Krishnan went on.
“Yes, Ms. Reese was telling me about him at the store that day when I ran into her,” she said. “She said he was a good friend for you. And a bright kid.”
Neela turned around. “She said that?” She searched her mother’s face to see what her mother thought about the whole thing. “And you’re okay with it?”
Mrs. Krishnan shrugged. “As long as he’s a nice friend, sure.”
Neela turned back to keep the surprise from showing on her face. Sometimes she had no idea what her mother would say or do.
Her mother glanced back at the group seated on the bamboo chairs.
“Well, Sree has certainly learned a lot from you,” she said. “Maybe in a few years, he can play the veena, too, if he wants.” She finished with the flowers and gave Neela’s hair a final pat.
“Yeah,” Neela said. “Sudha Auntie can have someone new to terrorize.”
“Ha,” her mother said.
As the days continued, a pall hung over the rest of the vacation for Neela. At night, she found herself dreaming of being back at the Chennai Train Station. Except in her dreams, the station was always empty of people, and she was standing alone with the maya veena, as if guarding it from something unknown. She wasn’t sure why she dreamed about the veena now when she knew it was gone. Maybe searching for it had filled her life with more excitement than she’d ever known, and now her dreams were filling in the adventure that was missing from her waking life. Or maybe she just missed having such a special instrument. Whatever it was, she woke up each morning and moped around her grandparents’ house, feeling strangely sorry for herself.
Lalitha Patti, who had been watching her, said one day, “Come with me, I’m going to the music store.”
“What do you mean?” Neela asked from the couch, where she was lying down and reading a book she had already read before.
“Govindar found my veena, the one that got stolen by mistake, stored away under some sheets at the store. He’s repaired it and polished it and says it’s ready to be picked up.”
“How can you think of going there after what he did?” Mrs. Krishnan said. She was sitting across from Neela, playing checkers with Sree on the floor.
“I do have to get my veena back,” Lalitha Patti said. “And I think Govindar feels very bad about everything. Besides, he isn’t the one who stole the veena. It was his son.” She turned to Neela. “What do you say? Also, Govindar has something for you.”
“What could he possibly have for her?” Mrs. Krishnan wondered.
“Well, she won’t know unless she comes, right?” Lalitha Patti said.
Neela wasn’t sure she wanted to see Govindar or his store again, but her grandmother had made her curious. She got up from the couch. “I’ll go, but if Mohan’s there, I’m leaving,” she said.
“I’m sure he’s saying the same thing about you,” Lalitha Patti said.
At the store, Govindar saw them immediately and waved. His face looked weary, as if he had been through a lot in the last week. Neela noticed that Mohan wasn’t around, and the framed newspaper article had been removed from the wall.
“Lalitha, Neela, good to see you,” Govindar said. “I wish we could have parted on better circumstances last time.”
“Mistakes happen,” Lalitha Patti said graciously.
They sure do, Neela thought. Like having a crook for a son. Not to mention being a liar yourself. But she smiled and said nothing.
“Please follow me,” Govindar went on. “We can talk in the back.” He signaled to his assistant to step up to the counter.
“Um, are we going to the back room?” Neela asked.
“Yes, is that a problem?” Govindar asked. Then he saw Neela’s face.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Just don’t close the door. It still gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
If Govindar was familiar with the heebie-jeebies, he didn’t say. But inside the back room, he did leave the door wide open. “First item of business,” he said. He directed Lalitha Patti to a worktable with two veenas on it, each covered by a heavy cloth. He lifted the cloth over one of them to reveal a shiny, freshly varnished veena that Neela recognized as her grandmother’s. “I think you will see everything is in place,” he said, “including the jewel work on the peg box.”
Neela’s grandmother bent over the instrument and studied it carefully. “Good work, Govindar,” she said.
As they continued looking over the veena, Neela’s eyes wandered around the room. It was hard to believe that just a week ago, she, Pavi, and Lynne had been stuck here with no way of escaping until a box of Cracker Jack saved the day.
Govindar noticed Neela looking around her. “Undoubtedly your mind is filled with the heebie-jeebies of last week,” he said.
“Um,” she said, trying not to giggle at the way this sounded.
“I am deeply sorry and ashamed by my son’s actions,” he went on. “For as long as I can remember, Mohan was obsessed with that veena. After we sold it away so many years ago, I was sure he had forgotten about it. But clearly he hadn’t. And he knew a lot more about the veena than I did.”
“So the girl and her grandfather, are they now insanely rich?” Lalitha Patti asked. She spoke casually, but Neela knew her grandmother well enough to hear in her voice a twinge of envy. It was hard not to feel it herself. After all, it wasn’t every day you gave up a rare and valuable instrument because it was the right thing to do. The wrong thing to do, it seemed, would have been so much easier. Neela sighed unconsciously, waiting for Govindar to confirm what Lalitha Patti had asked.
Instead he shrugged. “Veenas weren’t meant to withstand the test of time. Think of the heat and humidity. In Guru’s case, his veena did last for so long, and we don’t really know why. Still, an instrument is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it.”
“Wait a minute. The original Guru original is rare and priceless, but no one wants to buy it?” Neela crossed her arms.
“Well, I didn’t say no one,” Govindar said with a note of sadness in his voice. Neela realized then that he was thinking about his son. “There are people, just not a lot of them.”
There was a silence, and then Lalitha Patti spoke. “Govindar, when you’re ready, could we talk about the other matter?”
Someone cleared his throat. Govindar’s assistant was at the door, motioning to him.
“I will be right back,” Govindar said. “But yes. We will get to the other matter shortly.”
Neela and Lalitha Patti stood next to each other at the table while they waited for Govindar to return.
“Did you want to be insanely rich?” Neela asked.
“It isn’t important,” her grandmother said. “But one can�
�t help being curious.”
Neela nodded. She ran her finger along the sides of the worktable where the other covered instrument rested. Then at last, because she couldn’t help it, she lifted the cloth. It was another full-size veena, this one made in a honey-colored jackwood. The varnish looked like it had been recently applied. The frets and strings gleamed. And the peg box…Neela looked at it again. It wasn’t a dragon, but a fish painted in blue. She had never seen a fish on a veena before. Instinctively, she looked for a set of initials on the neck and was disappointed to see none. That would have been impossible, she thought. Guru was no more.
“Beautiful,” Lalitha Patti said.
Neela agreed. The veena wasn’t as ornate as the old one. There was no ivory inlay in the pegs or along the sides. But it had been stained in two tones, the top a lighter honey, and the back and bottom, a darker, richer shade. It reminded her unexpectedly of butter melting in a pan. Without thinking, she plucked the strings. They had not been tuned, and vibrated off-key, but the tone was warm and gentle. She continued to pluck the strings, listening to the notes fill the small room. It had a bigger sound than she expected. She noticed that the frets were closer together and that the whole veena seemed smaller than her original one. When she spanned the width of two frets with her fingers, she saw that they fit her hand perfectly.
Just then Govindar returned. She pulled her hand back, embarrassed.
He smiled. “Go on. That veena is new.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Really big sound.”
“You think so?” he asked. He glanced at Lalitha Patti.
Neela shrugged. “I’m no expert. It just felt like it was…filling up the room.”
“Well…it’s yours,” Govindar said.
Neela gave a start and checked his face, then her grandmother’s, to see if they were joking. Lalitha Patti beamed. “I told you Govindar had something for you.”
“Yeah, but a veena?” Neela said in surprise.
“Govindar threw in a huge discount, but the veena is from me, and—”
Govindar waved his hand. “No discount.”
Lalitha Patti stopped. “Govindar, I thought we had a deal,” she said, her voice rising.
“No discount,” he said, “because the veena is free. Courtesy of Chennai Music Palace. And Mohan.”
“Mohan?” Neela repeated.
“Believe it or not, he wanted you to have a veena. He was very angry that you found a way to separate him from the veena of his dreams. But you made an impression on him, too. Using money from his own bank account, he had this veena bequeathed to you. He said it wasn’t every day he met a girl in America that wanted to play the veena. So there you go. Your own veena. Not a Guru original, but would you believe it, a veena made by a fellow named T.G. Mukund, also known as Guru’s grandson. Yes, grandson! And it’s his first one. So you have an original, after all!”
Neela was speechless. Mohan, the person who stole the maya veena, who locked her in the store and tried to push her off a train, was now giving her…another veena? Had she understood correctly? Or had the world started spinning in the opposite direction?
“Here,” Govindar said, reaching into his pocket. “He asked me to give this to you. I have not read it. I guess he wanted to explain for himself.”
Neela took the letter from him and began reading it.
Dear Neela,
I heard what you did, giving up the maya veena, and I must comment on how silly and foolish you were. When you are grown up, you will look back at the day with regret.
Still, something about your gesture moved me. Not to tears…but to caution. Remember what I told you in Boston? How the veena is a dying art? Never has this been more true. All of us, friends and enemies alike, must join forces to see that this beautiful music tradition remains with us. I accept the torch and pass it on to you. This veena, which I ask you in turn to accept, is a measure of my desire to see you continue playing.
Best of luck, though I must say with all sincerity that I hope to never run into you again.
–R.K. Mohan
Neela stared at the letter when she was done. What did it all mean? Was Mohan a decent person after all?
“What does it say?” Lalitha Patti wanted to know.
“He wants me to keep playing,” she said, still surprised. She turned to Govindar. “What happened to Mohan? Is he here? Or in…” She didn’t know how else to say it. “Is he in jail?”
“Dear God, no,” Govindar said. “We went home immediately after we went to the station. The police aren’t interested in such things, just a big fat bribe. It’s funny, but it took this whole experience to make me realize how unhappy Mohan had been. The two of us had a long chat. He said he was sorry, and I was sorry, too. And now he is in Thanjavur. I sent him. He is taking care of his uncle, who hurt his back, and he is learning the veena with one of the master teachers there.”
“Wow,” Neela said.
“I miss him,” Govindar said. “But it was the right thing to do.”
“Yes,” Neela said. She knew all about doing the right thing.
On the ride home, Neela brought up something that had been on her mind ever since the day at the train station. “You knew Hal was Veronica’s father all along, didn’t you?” she asked.
A look of guilt came over Lalitha Patti. “I was wondering if you would ever ask me that. The truth is, I didn’t. That is, I didn’t believe him when he called me. After the newspaper article ran, I got so many phone calls, so many weird people approaching me with all kinds of phony claims. How was I to know he was telling the truth?”
“Would it have mattered?” Neela asked. “Would you have given him the veena?”
“I—I don’t know. But what I do feel bad about is…” Lalitha Patti swallowed. “I knew I had Veronica’s veena, from the time I bought the instrument. I remember her performing on it at the concert before her crash. The instrument was so unusual, so striking, and when it comes to veenas, I have a photographic memory. I remember everything, every little detail about anything that strikes my fancy. So when I saw it a year or so later in a tiny store about forty minutes from here, I was baffled—how could her veena survive the crash? Yet, evidently, it had. The salesman had no clue about what he had. He didn’t even know what a Guru original was. But I did. I bought the veena cheap and took it home. It became my secret. I told no one, not even my husband.”
“So when I lost the instrument and I told you about Hal…” Neela started.
Lalitha Patti shook her head. “It was too late by then. Honestly, I didn’t put the two things together. I never realized that your Hal was the same man who phoned me.” She looked down at her hands. “But I did know about Veronica, and I didn’t tell you. Maybe if I had, you would have connected the dots sooner.”
“But what was so wrong with having Veronica’s veena, anyway? Why didn’t you tell me or Thatha?”
Lalitha Patti let out a sigh. “I can’t explain it, but I was ashamed to buy a veena that belonged to someone who had died in a horrible crash. It seemed like bad luck.”
“You could have performed an aarti.”
“No aarti can remove that kind of thing.”
The car turned onto their street as Ravi expertly navigated around a large pothole in the middle that had accumulated rainwater from the past week.
As they drove the last few blocks, Neela thought of Mohan in Thanjavur, doing what he wanted at last. It was odd, but she found herself glad, imagining him taking lessons and becoming a musician. In the past two months, so many people had done terrible things, they had been entirely untrustworthy, and yet they had redeemed themselves in one way or another. And though she wasn’t sure why, it felt as if a great crisis had been averted.
“I asked you before, I’ll ask you again,” Lalitha Patti said. “Do you regret giving away the veena?”
Neela shook her head. “That veena was cursed, after all,” she said softly. “Not because it vanished—maybe it never did. It was be
cause everyone wanted it so badly. For different reasons, but the wanting was the same. That wanting was the curse.”
They pulled into the driveway.
“What about you?” Neela asked. “Do you miss the veena?”
It was Lalitha Patti’s turn to shake her head. “No, I have everything I need already.”
From the time Neela got back to Arlington, two things changed almost at once. The first was that Neela and Matt started walking home together from school most days, stopping at Winthrop to talk for a few minutes before going their separate ways. When Matt found out what had happened in India, he was impressed. “I told you the credit card trick would work,” he said. “Or, that is, the baseball card trick.”
The other change was that Neela and Lynne became friends. At first, Lynne kept her distance. Then gradually they began talking at their lockers, in the lunch line, and in class. One day Lynne said, “I thought you’d be cool. That’s why I tried not to talk to you.”
“What?” Neela burst out laughing. “That sounds like an insult.”
Lynne flushed. “Well, my grandfather was bugging me to befriend you. But then he did that awful thing, so there was no chance of being friends with you afterward.”
Neela pulled at a loose thread on her shirt. “So did you ever find out what the veena is worth? Are you now insanely rich?” She couldn’t help echoing her grandmother’s words.
Lynne pushed her frizzy hair back. “It’s funny you ask. While we were in India, Grandpa and I went to an appraiser. Just for insurance purposes,” she added quickly. “Not that we would ever sell the veena, because, um, that would be wrong.”
Neela nodded, waiting to hear the dollar figure. How much did a rare veena cost anyway?
“So the appraiser did a basic examination and said the veena was very old. But to do a complete examination he would have to get the varnish chemically tested, and a bunch of other things that are hugely expensive, which he couldn’t do, so he’d have to send it to some place in Mumbai. He said the value of the veena also depended on a ruby that was once embedded in the face of the dragon.”
