The Memorist

Chapter 109

Indus Valley, India-2120 B.C.E.

Ohana had never gone to the workshop without Devadas taking her there. During the day it was where he and his brother made their instruments and at the end of the day it was her trysting place with her lover. Rasul, his brother, was the only living soul who’d known about the affair and he’d never judged or questioned them.

Welcoming her now, he cleared a place for her to sit and then listened as she broke down and, interrupted by intermittent sobs, told him what she’d done and then showed him the bone.

When she finished, Rasul smoothed her hair down and washed her face with cool water from the well and made her drink a thick elixir of honey and herbs. Soon she was tired and he told her to lie down on the straw mat in the corner of the workshop-the same mat where she and Devadas had lain so many times.

When she woke five hours later, it was to an exotic sound. Ohana had spent enough time in worship to know the kasht tarang had a hollow wooden tone, that the manjira was like bells resonating and that the bins gave off reedy notes. These sad tones were different. They rode the breeze and surrounded her and helped her remember Devadas so clearly it was as if he was right there with her, beside her.

And then the song stopped.

Navigating the overcrowded room with its cabinets, shelves of supplies and tables covered with instruments in various stages of assemblage, Ohana found Rasul at the workbench by the brazier, bent over his work, concentrating intensely.

He held a sharp engraving tool over the fire, waited until it turned red-hot and then returned to the intricate detailing he was known for and the reason men came from distant cities to purchase his wares.

Carefully, he finished chasing a groove, laid his iron tool on the table, inspected his work and then lifted the flute to his lips. Almost as if he were kissing it, Rasul pressed his mouth to the body. A low, plaintive whistle developed into a full-toned note. The sound was pure and lucid. Like running water. Or starlight. An enlightened sound. Mesmerized, she stood immobile, then, as she listened, the note modulated. Warbled. Words came after that, soft-spoken words that had body and form and meaning, as if the very heavens were singing to her.

She would never know how long she stood there or how many stories she saw unfold in her mind. The music of the past showed her that she and Devadas had been together before this life in many others.

Rasul’s eyes were warm and moist as he extended his hand and offered her the instrument. “The flute is yours to keep for as long as you need its memory song…” he said. “Play it to help you remember that the two of you were together before and will be again. There’s no beginning and there’s no end. There’s only infinite passion. The infinite passion of life.”

Ohana took the instrument and brought it up to her breast, and now, for the first time since the Asthi-Sanchayana ceremony when Devadas had been cremated, she felt him close by and was comforted.