I admit: dull—confused and dull I was and still am; but, that is no reason to say I am lackluster. On the contrary, the ailment has only honed my senses—especially my ears; and made it more sensitive—not blunted it. I could hear the unheard—thoughts in others’ heads—the Anahata nada—the uncreated sound—the sound of silence. How, then, can I be branded a, ‘depressed maniac’? Probably because I am a quiet person, not given to expressing my joy overtly, you think I am depressed. Don’t ever underestimate! I am just happy being sad. But watch, how joyfully—how clearly I can relate the story with all its intricate details.
The idea struck me after the singer came into my life; and after the successful cancer treatment. And, when it did, it possessed me every second of my existence. Was there any motive? No. Any other reason? No. I liked her a lot—this new Dopelin Fellow. She never disliked me. A pretty woman, she was always absorbed in her singing, that is, whenever she sang. For her love, I had no wish. There was one thing: carefree youth. I think it was that. Yes, it was that! All the flitting and fluttering resembled that of the duck—flapping wings but flying nowhere. Whenever it winged, my face fell; and so, gradually, the idea to deport her took shape in my head; and that will rid me of that disgusting youth of hers forever.
Now, I know what you are thinking: I am mad—the result of post-traumatic mental stress. Lunatics don’t know anything—but not me. You have not seen the caution, vision, and clarity with which I planned and the care with which I executed! I never displayed more adoration towards the singer than what I did during the whole week before I carried it out. And every evening, after classes, I crept downstairs and walked —so noiselessly—by the side of her closed door. And then, when I got close to it, I stuck my ear close, very close, so that I could hear even a pin drop in the room beyond the heavy iron doors. Oh, if only you saw how cleverly I caught any sound! I listened fast—very, very fast—before anybody could even notice me leaning on the door. It took me two seconds to catch the music—her singing practice inside the room. Now, you tell me, would a lunatic be so fast, so efficient? And, when I caught snatches of her singing swiftly—so swiftly (for I had to filter other noises)—I heard her singing an alapana—the introductory improvisation part—unfettered but flimsy. The tradition of improvising with a fulcrum has gone waste on the youth. And this she did all the four evenings—every evening just after classes. She was there in her room; her young voice was there; and it was impossible to hide it. It was not she who irked me, but her carefree youth. And, every day I praised her singing, offered her a concert in this Apedust College where I was the music professor, and concerts all over the United States using my influence. I also inquired after her health, took care that she got Indian food and spoke gently to her. So, it would only take a very wicked mind to see through all my kind gestures and suspect that I check on her presence in her room every evening; and she is not that type.
On Friday evening, when I strode quietly near the door with my head bent and ready to take in the sounds, it suddenly opened. I was startled and took a step back. She came out, looked surprised, but smiled. “Hey, I just came to check if everything is alright.” I muttered with a sheepish grin.
“Sure, of course,” she said without feeling grateful that I myself had come down all the way to meet her. “I was coming over to meet you too.” She added throwing her hands and tilting her head with a smile. What audacity she had, looking at me as a friend, as her equal!
“Oh.” I reacted.
“This is a CD of my singing. Please listen to it and let me have your critical comments.”
“Sure, no problem; and I can already say that the singing will be very good. After all, who is singing…”
My fawning had its effect. She blushed. I knew she liked it. In fact, all performers like it when a music professor praises them. I observe how they feel superior and generous after an accolade! Phew! These nutty performers…
“So, where are you off to?”
“Hitting the gym.”
“Hmm… interesting. In all these years of my bringing in Carnatic musicians from South India, I have not seen even one of them exercise. But, then they were all old people. And, you are very young—in your twenties, eh?”
She blushed again. “I believe in keeping myself fit.”
“What humility!” I observed; and after a brief pause, said, “Go ahead. Let me not stop you from being healthy.”
She left; and that was my opportunity to strike. There was nobody in the corridor. I heard the click of the lock as I turned the master key (one of the many perks of being the Chair of the music department). Her room was tucked away in a corner closer to the rear entrance. It smelled of stagnant moisture, after all, it was a store room earlier and I gave it to her to use after some cleaning. There were no windows, and so no light or fresh air and better still, nobody snooping around. There was an old sofa on the left side and a computer on the right. There was a lot of junk facing the door; by junk I meant, old papers, music records, files, and the like. A corner of the old sofa near the wall was torn. I took out my gloves—new ones that had no marks of my hand or fingers; wore them; opened my bag, and picked the neatly packaged pouches of heroin. Pressing them into the tear of the sofa, I ensured that nothing was seen by the casual eye. Then, I switched the light off; opened the door cautiously—so cautiously that nobody heard a thing. After satisfying myself of the absence of souls, I quietly closed the door. Breathing a long sigh of relief, I drove home in my car smiling to myself while listening to the song (the alapana of which she was practicing the last four days; but not the song I loved) in the CD. She had a silvery voice—clear and light; and came from the heart, my ears sensed. The weekend saw me informing the FBI anonymously on their website about a drug dealer’s presence in the college.
It was snowing on Monday morning when I got the call. On rushing downstairs, I saw her in the midst of the FBI and local policemen. Like all suspects, she was shrieking, “I didn’t do anything!” to the deaf ears of the uniformed personnel. People gathered. Now you may think that I would act shocked and confused—but no. She was innocent of the dreadful deed and so I was acting supportive of her. I sprung to my feet and took the police aside, saying—“It may be a mistake.”
“We found this!” The policeman showed me, then, lifted his arm and showed the pouches to the gathering. She stood still—stone still with her eyes on the floor. No muscle of hers moved, not even her eyeballs. Her eyes were as dry as the Arizona desert.
I let out a groan—a groan that exposed a deep pain in my heart that I never knew of. My heart lightened, I looked at her. Her bent head made me pity her although I sniggered quietly. “Maybe it is not her.” My words rang with mirth. “Investigation comes later. First, the arrest on-spot!” The policeman declared.
“What do you propose to do? I asked.
“Deport her.”
“That is not fair. You can do that only after investigation and legal decision.”
“That is not your problem.”
“Would you do that to an American? It is because she is from another country, right?” I demanded, wanting to seem heroic in front of her.
But, she stood still—not a muscle moved.
They read her charges, handcuffed her and took her away. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Don’t worry; I am there. I will do everything in my power to free you!”
She never took her eyes away from the floor. She never moved her face—not even a muscle.
I rushed to my room to celebrate my liberation. For once, I was happy being happy; and I needed to be happy alone—going over the success again and again. You may have mistaken me for a depressed maniac but the fact is, my hyper-hearing sense has moved beyond the obvious—the heard—to the unheard. From afar, my ears picked up the voice, the female voice, the silvery voice; and I knew the voice. I heard her heart. I clenched my teeth. She had been gifting out her CD to all and sundry. My heart beat increased and I could hear it in my ears. It grew faster. It grew louder. I thought I will get a heart attack. My heart will burst and the blood will spew all over the place. What if somebody had seen me entering her room? What if they don’t find any direct link of her to the evidence? Should I do anything more to nail the coffin?
I rang the police.
“We sent her back in the first flight. By the way, we will need to interrogate everyone in the department starting with you.”
“Sure. That should not be a problem.”
She was deported. Yes, she was deported. I checked with him again. By now, she was halfway to India. At last, my efforts bore fruit. Her youth will not trouble me.
If you still thought I was a ‘freak’, you will be surprised to know how I safeguarded myself further after the call. The day progressed. I went to her room personally, changed the carpet (in case they looked out for fresh footprints) and cleared all the junk. I didn’t have to wipe anything as I had already ensured no fingerprints.
After classes in the evening, there was a sharp knock on my door. The policeman introduced himself. I had on, a gracious smile—the one that a clergyman wears. I told him how I had heard her singing in India, nominated her for the Fellowship, and brought her here on tenure. I showed him my letters to the College President and the Dopelin committee. I spoke to him as if I was still shocked and pained to hear the unexpected. My acting flowed. There was nothing to stop me. There was no dullness in my speech, no going blank, no feeling of being stuck. There was a clear sequence to my talk—no going back and forth. With confidence, I maintained my appreciation for her music; pausing only to show regret at the person behind the voice.
The policeman listened to my performance. He was in perfect harmony with my emotive symphony. His reactions matched my ebb and flow. At the end, he shook hands with me and empathized, “I feel sorry that you have been wronged.” He said. There would never have been a better audience than this one man, who meandered along with the flow of my speech. His pity-filled eyes gave me the ovation that no Oscar would give. Finally, a saturation I hadn’t ever known all these years enveloped and relieved my mind. In the next instant, I felt generous. “Why don’t I drop you?” I asked. He agreed.
He sat in the front with me. Making some small talk on the weather, I turned the ignition on. Simultaneously, her CD started playing: a beautiful stroke of an alapana in the raga I loved came forth in her silvery voice. The raga soothed and clutched at my heart. I looked helplessly at the policeman. It was melting my stony veneer. My face went pale, but my talk was clear. My voice started choking. This alapana went on slowly adding depth at every node. I breathed in quick successions, but the policeman didn’t hear it. I started speaking louder to drown the soft singing. But, it tugged at my heart in a way that only the soundless will do. My driving went jerky. I was getting reckless. But, the voice increased its smooth yet strong grasp at my heart. Still, the policeman chatted away, smiling now and then. Didn’t he hear the music? Didn’t he know this raga? He came—he saw—he knew; but he was deriding me. He knew I was a boring old man gifted with a cancerous prostate. He scorned at my loneliness and my depression. The alapana ended. And, she sang, “Chalamela raa; Saketharama!” (Lord Rama! Come out from below the river!)—my most loved song, unexpectedly. My stony heart melted into water. The voice took complete control of my heart. I had to scream or I would die! It was now or never!
“Stop it!” I shrieked, “It was me! Here! I have the rest of the heroin pouches! Not her! Not this croaking voice! It is this gruesome song!”
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