Draft two · October 2021
I submitted yet another Google Classroom assignment seated at my desk––a new norm because of the coronavirus pandemic––when my phone lit up from a text message from my great uncle. “Beta, call Badi Nani if you have some time.” I swiped up and pressed the FaceTime button. A few rings later, Badi Nani picked the phone up, and a small smile lightened her face as she greeted me in her sweet and raspy voice. New wrinkles had formed under her eyes, and her hazel complexion was darkening with time. Her hair was tied back into a tight ponytail; it was a new look for her. “Beta, how are you?” Badi Nani asked me, the usual rhythm lacking in her voice. “It’s been almost two years since you came to visit Florida.” “I know, Badi Nani. I’ve just been so busy with school. I promise to call you more often,” I said back to her. Expecting her to ask me about the new taals I had learned that week on the Tabla, I stood up from my chair and proceeded towards my music room. It was a tradition between us. I would sit down and practice my ragas on the Tabla while Badi Nani would sing one of her favorite Bollywood songs. Badi Nani had developed a love for music from her early childhood. She would always dance to songs playing on the radio or play the harmonium along with the newest Lata Mangeshkar songs.
Closing her eyes, she started humming an older Bollywood song, Chanda Hai Tu––the same one she would sing to me when she would visit us when I was younger. Badi Nani would sit on the bed, knitting a baby blue scarf, and I would run into her arms, knowing the best way to snuggle in her lap. Right before bedtime, Badi Nani would point at the night sky and say, “Do you see that moon? That is Chanda, mere beta!” I would nod away, and Badi Nani would continue to sing, “Chanda hai tu, mera suraj hai tu,” as I would drift asleep with her slender arms still resting over my head. This time, she didn’t ask me to play the Tabla but instead started to hum to herself, swaying her body left and right. I thought for a moment, sat down behind my Tabla, and placed my phone against the ottoman in front of me. I shaped my palms into a ‘C’ and struck the edge of the goat-skin stretched across the surface of the Bayan and Daya––the two drums of the Tabla––with my fingers. Dha Ge Na Tin Na Ka Dhin Na I played over and over again on the Tabla, trying to match the vibrations of Badi Nani’s faint humming. The taal resounded through the room as I picked up the tempo and began to sing Chanda Hai Tu, trying to match Badi Nani’s melody on the video call. She sat on her bed and her bangles jangled with each on-beat of the song. After going through the chorus several times together, after I finished singing, she stopped for a moment and turned her gaze back to the camera. I reached over for my phone and asked her how she liked the song. Badi Nani didn't speak back. She instead lifted her hand and slowly wiped away a tear from her cheek. After a minute, she finally said, "Khush raho, mere beta." Stay happy, my son.
Draft one · June 2021
My phone lit up with a text notification from my great uncle: "Beta, Badi Nani is missing you – COVID has made it so she cannot go anywhere. Call if you have some time."
I swiped up and pressed the video call button. Badi Nani picked the phone up, and a small smile lightened her face as she greeted me in her sweet but raspy voice. New wrinkles had formed on her hazel complexion, and her hair was stretched back into a tight ponytail, a new look for her. She didn't lift up a baby-blue hat, her knitting project, to show me. She didn't even ask me how my Tabla had been going. Instead, she averted her gaze from her phone and closed her eyes and started humming an old Bollywood song. The same one she sang to me when I was younger. Then, she would hold me in her arms, knitting away scarves upon scarves. She swayed her head back-and-forth left to right as she hummed "Chanda Hai Tu," one of her favorite songs – dedicated to me. She stopped humming for a moment and returned her gaze to the camera. "I cannot even visit the local senior-center to listen to music anymore, Beta. Because of the Coronavirus," Badi Nani said in Hindi, running her fingers through her hair.
Knowing my Badi Nani had developed a love for music from her early childhood, she would always dance to songs playing on the radio and play the harmonium on the newest Lata Mangeshkar songs. She also developed a love for singing throughout her life, and I thought for a moment and ran to my music room, phone in hand.
I sat down in front of my Tabla and leaned my phone against the leg of the ottoman in front of me. Her humming trailed off, and I closed my eyes. I remembered how I would run into her arms when I was younger. I would pounce on top of her bed and snuggle in her lap. She would rest her slender arms on my head and sing to me, "Chanda hai tu, mera suraj hai tu."
Only when I opened my eyes again and lifted my hands, ready to strike the Tabla to the steady rhythm of the song, did I understand the meaning of the words – "You are my moon and my sun. My whole universe."
I shaped my palms into a C and hit the edge of the goat-skin stretched across the surface of the Bayan and Daya – the two drums of the Tabla – with my fingers. A steady rhythm echoed throughout the room as I began to sing just as Badi Nani would. She sat on her bed, clapping her hands as her bangles jangled each time she struck her hands together. She nodded in approval just as I would when she would sing the song to me, and she then stopped for a moment and lifted a hand-held mirror. She hovered it against her face, and reaching back at her ponytail, she loosened her hair. Her salt and pepper hair fell straight down to her shoulders. It was the thinnest I had ever seen.
I stopped playing and reached for my phone, asking her how she liked the song. Badi Nani didn't speak. She instead lifted her hand and slowly wiped away a tear from her cheek. After a minute, she finally said, "Khush raho, mera bete." Stay happy, my son.