Imrat to practice the scales of the morning raga before Master Mohan permitted him to sing the devotional songs that would give them the endurance to confront the indignities of their lives for another day.
Morning after morning they listened to the music teacher instruct Imrat in the songs of Kabir and Mirabai, of Khusrau and Tulsidas, of Chisti and Chandidas, the wandering poets and mystics who had made India's soul visible to herself. Sometimes they even asked the boy to repeat a song, and Master Mohan could see them responding to the purity of the lyrics translated with such innocence by Imrat's voice.
To show their gratitude they began to leave small offerings on the wall above the balustrade: fruit, coins, a few crumpled rupees. And when the morning lesson ended, the street vendors crowded around Master Mohan and Imrat to offer a glass of steaming sweet tea or a hot samosa straight off a scalding iron pan.
Within a week Imrat's audience had expanded. Wealthy people on their morning walks stopped at the balustrade, drawn by the beauty of Imrat singing,
"Some seek God in Mecca,
Some seek God in Benares.
Each finds his own path and the focus of his worship.
"Some worship Him in Mecca.
Some in Benares.
But I center my. worship on the eyebrow of my Beloved."
Over the weeks more and more people made the balustrade part of their morning routines, until Master Mohan was able to recognize many faces at the wall, and every day he smiled at a young woman who folded a ten-rupee note, placing it in a crevice in the parapet.
When they dismounted from the tram, the paanwallah shouted his congratulations to fortify them against the raging wife waiting at the music teacher's house.
"Well, little Master Imrat. Your fame is spreading throughout Calcutta. Soon you will be rich. How much money did you make today?"
"Thirteen rupees." Imrat pulled the music teacher toward the sound of the paanwallah's voice. "How much have we got now?"
"Still a long way to go, Master Imrat. But here is another letter from your sister."
The paanwallah kept Imrat's money so Master Mohan's wife would not take it. It was Imrat's dream to earn enough money by his singing to live with his sister again, and each time she wrote he sang with renewed force.
Perhaps it was the fervor in Imrat's voice the morning after he had received another letter from his sister that made the miracle happen.
As Imrat was ending his song a man in blazer shouted, "Come on, come on, my good fellow. I haven't got all morning. Do you read English?"
The music teacher put down his tanpura and walked to the balustrade. The man handed him a paper without even looking at him, turning to the woman at his side. "Does the boy have a name or not? Can't sign a recording contract without a name."
Master Mohan pulled himself to his full height in defense of the child's dignity although the man in the blazer had his back to him. "He is blind and cannot read or write. But I am his guardian. I can sign for him."
"Jolly good. Turn up at the studio this afternoon so the engineers can do a preliminary test. That's what you want isn't it, Neena?"
His companion lifted her face and Master Mohan saw she was the woman who left ten rupees on the wall every day.
She smiled at Master Mohan's recognition. "Is this gifted child your son?"
Master Mohan shyly told her the story of Imrat, suppressing anything that might reflect well on himself, only praising the boy's talent. He could see the interest in her eyes, but the man was pulling at her elbow. "Fascinating, fascinating. Well, be sure to be at the studio at four o'clock. The address is on the contract."
Master Mohan studied the paper. "It says nothing here about payment."
"Payment?" For the first time the man in the blazer looked at him. "Singing for coppers in the park and you dare ask for payment?"
"We are not beggars." Master Mohan could not believe his own temerity. "I am a music teacher. I give the boy his lessons here so as not to disturb our
Morning after morning they listened to the music teacher instruct Imrat in the songs of Kabir and Mirabai, of Khusrau and Tulsidas, of Chisti and Chandidas, the wandering poets and mystics who had made India's soul visible to herself. Sometimes they even asked the boy to repeat a song, and Master Mohan could see them responding to the purity of the lyrics translated with such innocence by Imrat's voice.
To show their gratitude they began to leave small offerings on the wall above the balustrade: fruit, coins, a few crumpled rupees. And when the morning lesson ended, the street vendors crowded around Master Mohan and Imrat to offer a glass of steaming sweet tea or a hot samosa straight off a scalding iron pan.
Within a week Imrat's audience had expanded. Wealthy people on their morning walks stopped at the balustrade, drawn by the beauty of Imrat singing,
"Some seek God in Mecca,
Some seek God in Benares.
Each finds his own path and the focus of his worship.
"Some worship Him in Mecca.
Some in Benares.
But I center my. worship on the eyebrow of my Beloved."
Over the weeks more and more people made the balustrade part of their morning routines, until Master Mohan was able to recognize many faces at the wall, and every day he smiled at a young woman who folded a ten-rupee note, placing it in a crevice in the parapet.
When they dismounted from the tram, the paanwallah shouted his congratulations to fortify them against the raging wife waiting at the music teacher's house.
"Well, little Master Imrat. Your fame is spreading throughout Calcutta. Soon you will be rich. How much money did you make today?"
"Thirteen rupees." Imrat pulled the music teacher toward the sound of the paanwallah's voice. "How much have we got now?"
"Still a long way to go, Master Imrat. But here is another letter from your sister."
The paanwallah kept Imrat's money so Master Mohan's wife would not take it. It was Imrat's dream to earn enough money by his singing to live with his sister again, and each time she wrote he sang with renewed force.
Perhaps it was the fervor in Imrat's voice the morning after he had received another letter from his sister that made the miracle happen.
As Imrat was ending his song a man in blazer shouted, "Come on, come on, my good fellow. I haven't got all morning. Do you read English?"
The music teacher put down his tanpura and walked to the balustrade. The man handed him a paper without even looking at him, turning to the woman at his side. "Does the boy have a name or not? Can't sign a recording contract without a name."
Master Mohan pulled himself to his full height in defense of the child's dignity although the man in the blazer had his back to him. "He is blind and cannot read or write. But I am his guardian. I can sign for him."
"Jolly good. Turn up at the studio this afternoon so the engineers can do a preliminary test. That's what you want isn't it, Neena?"
His companion lifted her face and Master Mohan saw she was the woman who left ten rupees on the wall every day.
She smiled at Master Mohan's recognition. "Is this gifted child your son?"
Master Mohan shyly told her the story of Imrat, suppressing anything that might reflect well on himself, only praising the boy's talent. He could see the interest in her eyes, but the man was pulling at her elbow. "Fascinating, fascinating. Well, be sure to be at the studio at four o'clock. The address is on the contract."
Master Mohan studied the paper. "It says nothing here about payment."
"Payment?" For the first time the man in the blazer looked at him. "Singing for coppers in the park and you dare ask for payment?"
"We are not beggars." Master Mohan could not believe his own temerity. "I am a music teacher. I give the boy his lessons here so as not to disturb our
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