Hemakshi - Raag Jogia

Raag Lalit: A raga for the period between midnight and sunrise; it is meant to denote the freshness of the early morning and awakening of the mind. In some sense, it sheds off the day’s weight and welcomes a new beginning. Raag Ahir Bhairav: A somber raga for the period between eight and ten in the morning, it does convey a tinge of regret and sadness, pity and dejection. Yet, it also conveys an invocation of the divine, as if seeking out God to lessen the burden of sorrow. Strangely, it is used as a raga of healing by people who use music as a therapy. Raag Jogia: A raga used between four and seven in the morning, it is an introspective raga and named after jogis or people on the path of a spiritual journey. Despite a hint of sorrow, it is devotional in nature with a hint of romance. As a theme, it reflects renunciation of the world and self-abnegation. Raag Bhinna Shadja: Also known as Kaushikdhwani, it has a strong devotional character to it. In vocals, it is mostly sung in the male voice as it represents Krishna singing, surrounded by all his gopis. The emotional attribute of Raga Bhinna Shadja is that of a yogi beyond any attachment. Raag Marwa: Despite its maleness, it is sometimes also characterized as a quiet and contemplative raga, representing gentle, unrushed love corresponding to the period of dusk gently settling. Details of ragas do vary, and hence, the notes above are just to give an idea of what they mean and refer to. One fine morning, Hemakshi stopped singing. She was not an ordinary singer for she never sang for anyone but herself, and perhaps for the birds. She could not stop them from coming and perching on the window ledge of the living room. They stopped chirping as soon as they did that, but for an occasional tweet, which sounded like applause or a wah-wah. Her face would light up, sometimes finding her husband sitting behind her, eyes closed and swaying ever so slightly to her songs. She did sing very well; her voice was clear like running water though it was a bit on the nasal side. When she sang, her eyes would be closed, teeth flashing as her lips parted slightly to form the words. And music flowed like a prayer. She started singing at the age of eight and with no encouragement from anyone. Her father noticed the texture of her voice and its steadiness and got her enrolled as a shishya, or student, to an eminent Tamil classical singer. Hemakshi was on her way. Thirty years later, she was still singing. Her favorite time of the day was early morning or just before sunrise. Though she could sing almost all the ragas flawlessly, she would invariably choose between a Lalit or an Ahir Bhairav. She did not sing much in the afternoons; mostly she was at the college for her lectures or sleeping after a good meal of rice and rasam with a big helping of coconut-beans lightly tossed in oil. If she did sing, she would always stick to her favorite Bhimpalasi raga. More often than not, she would sit cross-legged in her large verandah in the evenings and sing for the second time in the day. If she had her fill some afternoons, she would just skip the evening ritual. During early evening, she would play around with her favorite ragas – the mystical and more serious Poorvi or Marva – both more suited to the male voice and with the latter sounding like a war cry. Despite her delicate voice, she did a good job of both the ragas. There were times when she would get up late in the night and sing softly sitting at the same place; she would stick to her Khamaj or flit between the mystic Malkauns or Rageshwaari. The one she sang the best she sang the least – it was raga Shankara. She did not particularly care that it was dedicated to Lord Shiva of the Trinity for she was more tuned to the Goddess Kaali; the irascible and capricious temper – boisterous sometimes, pleading the next moment – the virile male energy at higher notes and feminine attributes at lower notes calmed her mind; for she sang this when she was in turmoil and it invariably settled her mind. The ones she stayed away from were the ragas Kaushikdhwani and Jogia; they both moved her when she heard them but their ascetic quality scared her. While singing, she stuck to the discipline of what ragas to sing at what time of the day and never ever departed from it. Nothing was fine about that day. The temperature had soared to thirty-eight degrees and being close to the sea, the humidity was over 90 per cent. She lay like a damp rag on the sofa, a film of sweat clinging all over her body. She stared at the fan, its blade going round and round. It did not occur to her to get up and switch on the air conditioning; that would mean shutting all the doors and windows, and right now she neither wanted to get up nor did she have to strength to do so. She wiped the beads forming over her upper lips with her sleeves. She had just come back from the hospital after spending eight days there. Her husband had picked her up and brought her home; he gave her a glass of lemonade and left a jug of it next to her. There was food in the kitchen, he told her, and fruits in the fridge. She nodded her head, more to get rid of him than to acknowledge what he said. He had wanted to stay back and in fact had taken the week off to be with her but that irritated her. She did not want him around, or anyone else. She told him so and when he looked hurt she turned away. She had said it as harshly as she could and she was good at such things. He finally left, feeling guilty that he was relieved at not having to stay back with her. All she wanted was to be left alone with her empty womb. This was the third time she had lost the baby, three times over four years. Each time she would come back more determined to conceive again but not this time. She had given up, her husband would now never agree for another try and the doctor did not want anything to do with her anymore. He had actually said she needed a psychiatrist more than a medical doctor now. Her husband agreed. She did not. The heat was oppressive and she felt her eyelids growing heavy. She was barely fourteen; her brother had been sick for a while now and things were getting worse. Her family was barely making it now – the treatment was taking its toll; both money and patience were running thin. She was scared now, mostly for her parents. It had started with mild arguments, each snapping at the other. Then came the abuses as well as flinging and smashing of things. It finally climaxed into slaps that rang out like gunshots, screams at arms being twisted, kicks that made them double up in pain only to get up and hit back in return. The sound of bodies crashing on the bed, the thud of fists sinking into soft flesh, the gurgling and moaning, the sickening sound of bones crunching against bones. She would huddle in the corner whimpering with her brother clinging to her chest. He did not know what the sound was all about, did not understand. She dealt with it alone. When the night was worn out and quiet, she would crawl into her small bed with the little boy who was not her child. She woke up with a start, her throat burning. She picked up the lemonade bottle and drank hungrily, most of it spilling, running down her chin, her neck and breasts. She flopped back onto the sofa, drained. She once again ran her hand over her belly, missing the bump that was there a week back. Involuntarily she started to count the baby kicks. There was absolute stillness instead and she remembered. She wiped her mouth on her sleeves again; the saliva had started to dribble. She closed her eyes, trying to shut her baby out. She opened her eyes with great effort. Someone was ringing the bell; must be the maid she thought. She made no attempts to get up, willing her to leave. It rang again, this time longer and insistent. She closed her eyes. If she kept the door closed long enough, it will go away, she thought. It did. The phone rang instead; it was next to her, within her reach. She let it ring. It is Primary Ovarian Insufficiency, the doctor had told her; in other words, her ovaries were not working the way they should. Many tests later he had recommended IVF for conception but only when she had goaded him for options. He was not happy though, given her age and other health complications, but she had persisted. He had warned her about the steroids and the chances of success – less than 50 percent – but she felt invincible. She was alone at home with her brother; her parents had to return from the doctor with the reports by seven. It was already nine and there was no sign of them. She lay on her bed reading, her brother sprawled half over her stomach and half on a pillow. She tried pushing him away but he had hooked his little hand around her waist. She heard the footsteps first and nearly made a mistake; they were dragging feet – not the robust sound of her father’s walk. Yet it was unmistakable. She heard the key turn, heard them come in. Moments later he walked into the room, picked up her brother and left silently, shutting the door behind. She heard the sound of the latch – he had locked the door from the inside. Ice cold hands clamped her heart. She knew something had gone wrong. Her breath hurt and she did not know what to do to ease it as she sat trembling. The first time she lost the baby it was less than four weeks old; she had gone for a routine check-up and they took her in to rid her of the fetus that was dead for over twenty-four hours. She had suffered in silence. Deep into the night, when she could not be seen but could be heard, she sought strength as she sat singing raga Durga – invoking the Goddess of power. The second time, it had survived twelve weeks. She was taking her bath, allowing her body to soak in the warm water from the shower as she ran her hand over her bare skin when she noticed red water flowing down her legs. She had screamed and run naked into the living room where her husband sat watching television. Thankfully it was a Saturday. He tried to stem the blood with ice and towel but failed. Wrapping her in a thick robe, he lifted her and carried her to the car. Once again, they had to inject her to induce the contraction and an hour later, she had aborted. The phone stopped ringing abruptly. She had lost a thread, she thought distractedly; something important that she needed to remember. She knit her brow and tried to recall what it was when the bell had rung. She knew something had gone wrong. Her breath hurt and she drew her knees up to her chest to ease it. She sat there, alone and trembling. Time ticked and it could have been an eternity before the door opened. Her father came in. He looked straight into her eyes and said softly – he is dying; he has cancer. He turned and went back into the room and closed it again. The sound of the bolt was like a thunderclap, searing through her brain, setting her nerves on fire. It lasted a few seconds, maybe a few minutes. Then she grew cold, stone cold for always. She dreamt she was standing in front of a huge mirror. It was large – two pieces joined together. She stood in the center – her reflection split in two. She was naked, her face gaunt and the rest of her body shriveled like a stream bereft of water. Only her breasts were large and swollen. They ached, as if they wanted to burst and release all the poison they contained. She blinked. The neon lights were harsh. She saw the masked faces hovering above her. She knew. She felt nothing. She heard voices floating, voices of panic, of calm, of order. She blinked again. The baby was going and there was nothing she could do. She wanted to stop them; feel him again, one last time. She could not move her hand. Ah, the anesthesia once again, she thought to herself. She blinked. She had carried him for seven months – he would have his features all formed. She had seen the ultrasound – the fingers, the feet, the face, the clenched fists. She had named him Shankara. She whispered his name and it echoed in her head. She blinked. The neon light went out. The faces were going too, one by one. It was over – her thoughts were crystal clear. One face loomed over her – her husband’s. And she closed her eyes. She woke up with a start, disoriented. There was a dull glow in the room; was it morning or night? She lay there aching all over; her breath was stale and the sweat on her body was setting off a sour odor. She got up and dragged herself to the bathroom, peeling her clothes off on the way. She stood under the shower, trying to take the heat off, willing the water to rinse her off the needles. She came out and put on her old and worn robe, her hair still wet and dripping. She stepped out onto her verandah. The sky was an iridescent orange. All around otherwise was pitch dark but not darker than her inside. She sat on the small swing and tried to hum instinctively. Nothing happened. She had forgotten the notes, she realized. It was drizzling and she started to get wet all over again. She dived into her memory, trying to find the instrument of peace; she had been given that gift too but had ignored it. Instinctively, she crossed her leg, loosened her body and lifted her face up to chant the mantra she had grown up with; she tried to focus on the silence, the stillness between the chants in her head. She felt the clamps on her heart loosen their grip, the throbbing in her head ease. She had no idea when she drifted off into a numb nothingness. Like that morning, many other mornings came and went; days turned to weeks and weeks to months. The chants helped her as long as she chanted, but within no time of her finishing, the gnawing fear would return; the fear of once again remembering the loss. In the beginning, the birds kept coming everyday, first perched all around quietly, as if waiting for her to begin and then filling up the house with a raucous din – twittering and chirping, demanding her to start singing again. One by one, they left and slowly the house became silent. She cut everyone out of her life – she left them with no choice but to leave her alone. The only person she wanted to stay was her husband but he decided to leave; he had had enough and could take it no longer. She unleashed her fury at him first and when he was no longer around, she used the anger to fill up the void inside of her. Now living in an empty house, she became a ghost of her earlier self – a ghost seeking the meaning of her existence, the purpose of her life, a ghost seeking redemption. The only time she left the house was on Tuesday and Saturday evenings when she would go to the temple to ring the bell in rage and remind the gods and goddesses of their injustice. The only time she would speak was to address the woman sitting outside the temple singing – she was her age and always dressed in white. She did not know her name – no one did. She would ask her if she was well and the woman would smile and nod her head in affirmation, without interrupting her song. With time, her visits to the temple were less to complain to the gods but more to hear the woman. Hemakshi would sit there for an hour, sometimes more. She would sit still, her eyes closed, brows knit – listening with rapt attention to the woman sing. Hemakshi comes to the temple even today. Now she taps her feet to the woman’s songs. She does that only on raag Jogia or Bhinna Sadja. She herself never sang again. All through she did not shed a single teardrop.