each time the neon signs flashed, past the goatherds gossiping by their aluminum canisters until it was time to milk the goats grazing on the grass, toward the white balustrades that enclosed the marble mausoleum of the Victoria Memorial.
The music teacher lowered his cane mat and his tanpura over the side of the balustrade before gently lifting Imrat onto the wall. After climbing over himself, he lifted the child down, both so silent in the dark the guard asleep in his sentry box was left undisturbed.
With a swishing sound Master Mohan unrolled his cane mat, still smelling of green fields, and seated Imrat next to him.
Then he played the first notes of the morning raga on his tanpura. To his delight, Imrat repeated the scale faultlessly.
Master Mohan explained the significance of the raga, initiating Imrat into the mystery of the world's rebirth, when light disperses darkness and Vishnu rises from his slumbers to redream the universe.
Again Imrat sang the scale, but there was a new resonance in his voice. He could not see the faint blur of the picket fences ringing the race course in the distance, or the summit of Ochterlony's Needle breaking through the smoke from the illegal fires built by the street hawkers around the base of the obelisk. He could not even see the guard looking through his sentry box, his hand half raised to expel them from the gardens, frozen in that gesture by the boy's voice. He only saw the power of the morning raga and, dreaming visions of light, he pushed his voice toward them, believing sight was only a half tone away.
Afraid the raga would strain the child's voice, Master Mohan asked Imrat to sing a devotional song. The boy obediently turned his head toward the warmth of the sun's first rays and sang,
"The heat of Your presence Blinds my eyes. Blisters my skin. Shrivels my flesh.
"Do not turn in loathing from me. 0 Beloved, can You not see Only Love disfigures me?"
Master Mohan patted Imrat's head. "That is a beautiful prayer. Where did you learn such a songr
Tears clouded the clouded eyes. "It is a poem by Amir Rumi. My father said that one day he and I would sing it at Amir Rumi's tomb together."
The music teacher took the child in his arms. "You will still sing at Amir Rumi's tomb, I prom
•ise you. And your father will hear your voice from
heaven. Come, sing it once more so I can listen properly."
The child blew his nose and again shocked the music teacher with power of his voice.
"Do not turn in loathing from me. 0 Beloved, can You not see Only Love disfigures me?"
At that moment a sudden belief took root in Master Mohan's mind. He was convinced God was giving him a second voice, greater than he had ever heard, greater than his own could ever have been. He was certain such a voice must only be used to praise God, lest fate exact a second revenge by robbing him of it.
Sure of his purpose as a teacher at last, Master Mohan asked the boy, "Did your father ever teach you the prayers of Kabir? Do you know this hymn?"
He played some notes on his tanpura and Imrat responded with excitement, opening his throat full to contain the mystic's joy.
"O servant, where do you seek Me?
You will not find Me in temple or mosque, In Kaaba or in Kailash,
In yoga or renunciation.
"Sings Kabir, '0 seeker, find God In the breath of all breathing.' "
And now a most extraordinary thing happened. Someone threw a coin over the wall, and it fell on the grass in front of Master Mohan. The music teacher stood up. On the other side of the balustrade, just visible in the first light of dawn, he saw a group of goatherds leaning on the wall.
By the next morning people were already waiting for them, and the guard waved Master Mohan and Imrat benevolently through the gate. Word had spread in the park that a blind boy with the voice of an angel was singing in the gardens of the Victoria Memorial. In the darkness goatherds, street hawkers, refugees with children huddled to their bodies, waited patiently for
The music teacher lowered his cane mat and his tanpura over the side of the balustrade before gently lifting Imrat onto the wall. After climbing over himself, he lifted the child down, both so silent in the dark the guard asleep in his sentry box was left undisturbed.
With a swishing sound Master Mohan unrolled his cane mat, still smelling of green fields, and seated Imrat next to him.
Then he played the first notes of the morning raga on his tanpura. To his delight, Imrat repeated the scale faultlessly.
Master Mohan explained the significance of the raga, initiating Imrat into the mystery of the world's rebirth, when light disperses darkness and Vishnu rises from his slumbers to redream the universe.
Again Imrat sang the scale, but there was a new resonance in his voice. He could not see the faint blur of the picket fences ringing the race course in the distance, or the summit of Ochterlony's Needle breaking through the smoke from the illegal fires built by the street hawkers around the base of the obelisk. He could not even see the guard looking through his sentry box, his hand half raised to expel them from the gardens, frozen in that gesture by the boy's voice. He only saw the power of the morning raga and, dreaming visions of light, he pushed his voice toward them, believing sight was only a half tone away.
Afraid the raga would strain the child's voice, Master Mohan asked Imrat to sing a devotional song. The boy obediently turned his head toward the warmth of the sun's first rays and sang,
"The heat of Your presence Blinds my eyes. Blisters my skin. Shrivels my flesh.
"Do not turn in loathing from me. 0 Beloved, can You not see Only Love disfigures me?"
Master Mohan patted Imrat's head. "That is a beautiful prayer. Where did you learn such a songr
Tears clouded the clouded eyes. "It is a poem by Amir Rumi. My father said that one day he and I would sing it at Amir Rumi's tomb together."
The music teacher took the child in his arms. "You will still sing at Amir Rumi's tomb, I prom
•ise you. And your father will hear your voice from
heaven. Come, sing it once more so I can listen properly."
The child blew his nose and again shocked the music teacher with power of his voice.
"Do not turn in loathing from me. 0 Beloved, can You not see Only Love disfigures me?"
At that moment a sudden belief took root in Master Mohan's mind. He was convinced God was giving him a second voice, greater than he had ever heard, greater than his own could ever have been. He was certain such a voice must only be used to praise God, lest fate exact a second revenge by robbing him of it.
Sure of his purpose as a teacher at last, Master Mohan asked the boy, "Did your father ever teach you the prayers of Kabir? Do you know this hymn?"
He played some notes on his tanpura and Imrat responded with excitement, opening his throat full to contain the mystic's joy.
"O servant, where do you seek Me?
You will not find Me in temple or mosque, In Kaaba or in Kailash,
In yoga or renunciation.
"Sings Kabir, '0 seeker, find God In the breath of all breathing.' "
And now a most extraordinary thing happened. Someone threw a coin over the wall, and it fell on the grass in front of Master Mohan. The music teacher stood up. On the other side of the balustrade, just visible in the first light of dawn, he saw a group of goatherds leaning on the wall.
By the next morning people were already waiting for them, and the guard waved Master Mohan and Imrat benevolently through the gate. Word had spread in the park that a blind boy with the voice of an angel was singing in the gardens of the Victoria Memorial. In the darkness goatherds, street hawkers, refugees with children huddled to their bodies, waited patiently for
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