An attempt at a short story: Murali

 Murali

Murali lived in the sleepy town of Pushpagandha. He was tall and handsome but poor and unambitious, he slept by the town’s public park, always careful to attract any attention to himself lest he rid himself of a night of peace. In the mornings, he would walk to the road at Jackson junction, named after some great Imperialist who walked on the Earth decades ago and played his flute by the traffic lights to attract sympathy and more importantly, money. He would eat the scraps left out by some kind baker’s apprentice outside the bakery nearby. 

His flute was now quite battered and bruised and had long lost its sheen, yet the air still flowed through it well enough to produce sounds so sweet and soulful to the ears that it momentarily distracted the commuters who were busy and on their way to the office, some would stay transfixed at the signal for a moment after the lights turned green, only to be rudely awoken at the harsh blare of horns and leave with a hint of disappointment.

Few would stay long enough to give a few rupees to Murali and ends were hard to meet. Murali had friends of his own trade, and indeed they had turned their occupation into an art. “Persistence and efficiency are of utmost importance” advised one of his friends, “The more people you ask, the more you get and counting on the sympathy of people is not lucrative anymore”. 

Indeed Murali had started to consider this line of thinking a great deal. Wasn’t he a fool to keep playing to an audience who neither had the time, nor the kindness to sustain him? He reasoned that he would have to stop this futile exercise soon or else he might starve to death. 

The train crossing just outside town would provide ample opportunity. All he needed was a crutch or a cast, which were simple enough to obtain. He had decided to play the flute for two more weeks, just enough to give him a bit of money to embark on the short journey to the crossing.

The first morning went by as usual, with him earning a few coins here and there but on the second morning something unusual happened. As Murali played a regular tune on his flute, he noticed an intent spectator from the corner of his eye.

It was a young girl, no more than eight. She wore a small cap with a sweater to protect herself from the same cold that Murali protected himself from with his rags. She had freckles across her cheeks and brown, almost, mousy hair. Her hands touched the window, as she pressed her face against it to see and hear Murali as her mother dozed; no doubt exhausted with the efforts of caring for her daughter.

Murali paid no attention to the girl. After all, his aim was sustenance and children had no money of their own to care for themselves, let alone care for some vagabond on the street. And yet somewhere in his mind a strange happiness started to grow much like that of the artist who has many admirers for his work. 

Everyday the car showed without fail at the signal and the girl always watched Murali play his flute, clapping with glee before the traffic signal turned green and the car drove to its destination. 

Seven days passed like this, and each day Murali started to look forward more and more to the moment the girl appeared at the junction and started to despise the traffic light more and more for signaling the end of his performance. On the ninth day something odd happened. As the car drove up to the junction yet again, the window was down. The girl listened to Murali as usual but then spoke, loud and clear, her voice almost tinkling like little bells- “Play something new for me!” as the lights turned and green and her car started moving forward,

Murali was cast into an unexpected reverie. New? He had never learnt anything other than what he played now and he never even considered it for a moment. After all, sustenance is the only concern for a beggar. He hadn’t learnt anything new since he was a child, when his father had taught him.

That night Murali was thrust back into the days of his youth. He lay at his usual spot near the park thinking of his father. He was a renowned flautist with a background in music and song that stretched through the generations of the family and he wished to teach his son the same as his elders once did. So deep was his devotion to the flute that he even named his own son Murali- the Malayalam word for flute.

Yet Murali’s thoughts would go elsewhere even as his father instructed him, he gazed at the sky and the trees around him, relentless in his curiosity for all things beautiful and sweet. His heart lay not in music, nor any family craft, but in bringing all the beauty that he saw, to life in paintings and pictures that shone with promise.

Still, Murali’s father was adamant. No son of his would concern himself with any other craft other than music, it was shameful to him that Murali was uncaring of such a noble pursuit as the flute. Shame turned to anger, and anger turned to resentment.

Day after day Murali would be forced to play the flute without respite for hours on end. Despite his throat being parched and the ache of his fingers, he kept on playing, pushed onward by the harsh beatings and words of his father. 

Resentment breeds resentment and Murali started to resent the very instrument that his father treasured more than his own son.

Murali cried at his mother’s lap every night after his father would dismiss him, never a word of praise to be offered to the eager ears that awaited them. He would fall asleep to the sound of the songs that his mother sang to him, his only respite in an otherwise unhappy life.

Tragedy found its way into Murali’s life again with his mother’s death. 

Gone was the only solace in both son and father’s life. Not long after this his father, blinded by his sorrow took his life when alcohol didn’t suffice, leaving Murali alone to shoulder the burdens of the world with no one to care for him. 

He was taken in by indifferent relatives, treated no better than a dog and indeed when he left, he was not missed by any that knew him or perhaps it would be better to say any those that were aware of his existence. He carried only his father’s prized flute with him. With neither money nor job in hand, Murali turned to the only thing that he knew to do well.

Rain broke Murali out of his reminiscence and he was surprised to feel his own hot tears mingling with that of the cold raindrops. He was alone, with no one to care nor ask for him, he lived on scraps for the meagre existence of a pauper. He considered taking his life just as his father did and yet it wasn’t his father who came before his mind’s eye as lay there wondering why he was still there in his miserable existence.

It was the girl, he knew without thinking for even a moment.

Her smile was so beautiful and radiant, one so pretty that not the most expertly cut diamond could stand before it, he saw perfection in the imperfection of her freckles, in her slightly crooked grin and her tiny ears. Beholding that beauty was the only assurance to him that life isn’t just a never ending struggle of misery and loss, it spoke of hope and happiness- foreign concepts in Murali's life.

The next day Murali went to a stationary shop nearby, he bought some pencils and paper with the earnings of the past eight days from the surprised shop-keeper. He was resolute in his actions and he had decided that the crossing was not his destiny, and if indeed it was, he would not accept it.

That night Murali caught a cold. With no access to medicine nor care he felt the acuteness of each sneeze and cough, yet he had something that no prescription would be able to give a person no matter how hard it tried- Determination. Murali was determined to succeed in this even if it cost him his life. 

He remembered the soft voice of his mother, rising and falling with such effortlessness as her hands went through his hair. He always thought that his mother was a far greater musician than his father. He tried to mimic his mother and yet he felt himself reject his notion.

As much as he resented his father, he sensed somewhere within his being that only a unison of the hard learned skills that he got from his father and the song of his mother would make something “new”. He decided not to return to Jackson Junction until he had perfected the music.

His lungs heaved now and then struggling to breathe let alone breath life into the flute, yet he was persistent. He felt now that it wasn’t him playing the flute, he felt his mother guiding him at his right and his father’s hand on his shoulders as he practised. 

It was the thirteenth day since the day that the idea of leaving Jackson Junction came to his mind. He now shifted his focus to the final task that he had set for himself. He worked all night under the light of the streetlights, his hands trembled due to sickness and inexperience but finally at the edge of night he was finished.

The next day he returned to the junction and stood at his usual spot, waiting for the car. As soon as he saw it approach, he shut his eyes lest he become too nervous, and started playing at his loudest. 

It was beautiful. So beautiful that the cars all remained in place even after the lights turned green, all heads were turned towards Murali, transfixed as if he were the Pied Piper himself. For a few moments, the cacophony of horns and shouts were silenced, all in awe. No musical theory of this world would ever be able to explain the sounds that came that day out of that shoddy flute played by a beggar and no description of mere words would do justice to that sound so breathtakingly beautiful and pure.

Murali was so deeply immersed and absorbed in his music, that not even a gunshot would have stopped him. He heard nothing, saw nothing and felt nothing. He only saw in his mind’s inner eye the face that he awaited most.

As he ended, the junction erupted in applause, few present would ever listen to greater music than what had been presented here at the unlikeliest of places. Horns blared in unison as a show of appreciation and many started to take photos. Murali opened his eyes, anxious to see the reaction of the only one that really mattered to him.

Yet it was not the girl’s shining face that awaited him. It was the face of her mother, finally awake. She had her hand clasped to her mouth with tears streaming down the side of her face as she sobbed uncontrollably. Murali was disconcerted, where was the girl?

A lot of things happened in quick succession. He was invited into the car and with much trepidation got in and was carried away in anticipation of the sight that he longed to see. Then the mother began to speak haltingly, trying to maintain her composure. Her daughter’s name was Simran, she was eight.

She had cancer, the terminal kind that doesn’t get better. It had started as a tumour within her ears and had completely removed any hearing that she had. The cancer had spread and she had entered operation three days before to undergo surgery to remove a tumour when suddenly due to complications, she passed away. 

Murali sat looking straight ahead at the road as he slowly understood what had just been said to him. He was unblinking, unmoving and indeed almost stone-like. The face that he had worked for, so hard without respite was now gone. His breath got caught in his throat, no tears came out nor did words. He stayed silent, eyes closed, face in an expression of unmistakable agony.

The car took the turn into St Mary’s Church of Pushpagandha. Murali walked with Simran’s mother towards the graveyard. He now stood before the grave of that sweet face, unknowing of sorrow or pain. He felt so overwhelmed by his emotions that he kneeled by the grave, kissing it with all the tenderness he knew as the tears finally came down.

This was reality, life was unfair, what he did didn’t matter, he was cursed to a life of unhappiness, one of utter despair. How cruel was fate to remove such a pure and kind soul as that child?

The mother spoke after a few moments with her voice breaking. “She often spoke of you”.

Murali turned and suddenly all that he thought of before took a step back. She continued, ”After all the chemotherapy and strong medication, she was more tired than I was but she still found time to tell me about ‘flute uncle’. About how he looked so pretty with his flute, playing it and smiling at her. She couldn’t hear you play but I doubt any other person felt you play it as much as her” she said, smiling with her eyes full.

Murali was silent and as he spoke his voice was more shaky than he had expected,” Madam, your daughter has given me reason to live” he said as he extracted the creased drawing that he had drawn the day before and presented it to her “Will you accept this in her place?”.

As she opened the folded paper she saw Simran. She saw her tiny little dimples, her little hands gripping the chains of a swing, her smile so beautiful that nothing could compare.

It is most hard to impress a mother of the beauty of their child by any imitation because the picture of her child in her mind has no equal.

And yet this drawing, this drawing that was no artistic marvel nor masterpiece, with jagged lines and no colour nor shadow was closer to that picture than anything she would ever see.

Her hands caressed the paper with the tenderness that she had caressed her daughter with as she was overwhelmed by emotion. So overwhelmed was she that she didn’t notice Murali leave after thanking her.

She sought Murali in the days after, always returning to the junction to see him and yet she never saw him thereafter. She wondered at times if he was truly human or some messenger of divine origin, but she never stopped searching for Murali.

And where was Murali? No one knows, perhaps he died a meaningless life after all and one with no great end nor upheaval, maybe he found success after all the tragedies in his life.

One thing is certain however, of all the tragedies that occurred in Murali’s life it was this that would finally give him happiness and hope. 

When a girl who could not hear, heard his music.