Published in The Sunday Standard, August 6th, 1967

Nirmala dug her fingers into the small lump of dough and broke off a piece the size of a large pea. Diligently, she rolled it into a paisa-sized chapati and tossed it from hand to hand as she had seen her mother do.

“Nimmu, darling, come over here and sing us a song,” coaxed her mother. “See, your uncles and aunts have come all the way just to hear you sing.” The six-year old flung her scrap of dough aside and hurried into the room.

She smiled at the guests. “If you want me to sing, you must all obey me,” she ordered confidently. “Now, you Aunt Sarla must sit there, and Uncle Ram next and you – in front.” She pulled and pushed each one into place, chattering and laughing all the time. When she had them grouped to her satisfaction she strode into the center of the room.

“Silence!” The tiny hand went up. With a professional looking bow and folding of the palms, she began to sing “Paga Ghunghuroo Re –“. Her fingers picked up the end of her long skirt and she danced, making up her own gestures as her feet kept time to the catchy tune of the Bhajan. In the end, she danced and sang faster and faster, whirling around and around till she collapsed into a laughing heap on the floor.

The men and women crowded around her clapping their hands and showering her with kisses. “She has such a sweet voice,” said Uncle Ram to his sister, “and more than that, she can carry the tune well.”

“Why don’t you let her sing in the junior Music Competitions?” asked Aunt Sarla. “She is certain to walk off with the prizes.”

Lakshmi, Nimmu’s mother replied diffidently “Oh! I don’t know. Our children always seem so special to ourselves.”

“Nonsense,” said Aunt Sarla firmly, “this child has a precocious gift for music. You must not let it go unnoticed.”

Nimmu thought it was good fun when her mother told her that she was to sing in front of the judges. She had been used to adoring uncles and aunts praising her voice and was not in the least shy of performing before others.

The only thing that irked her was that she was not to dance! She kept her hands to her side with a great effort of concentration and they caressed the folds of the new silk skirt she was wearing. But her feet tapped out their own rhythm, hidden by the gold border of the long dress. “Mai Hari Charana”. Her thin, childish voice sung with appealing charm. When she finished, the people applauded her in unison.

The child prodigy began to be in great demand for all kinds of shows. Nimmu sang with unconscious flair for the dramatic, stressing and emphasizing a word where she felt she must and fading away when the tune seemed to call for it.

“Hari Tuma Haro Re”. Every time she sang this, she felt sad. The long low notes brought tears to her eyes and there was no need for her to simulate the appropriate tone of voice.

“Who has been teaching the child?” asked one of the judges at a performance. “Nobody,” answered her mother, “she has picked it up herself.”

“You must get her a good teacher straight away” advised the expert. “What a great artist this little girl will become if tutored in the right manner!”

Soon, little Nimmu had a teach. At first, she enjoyed singing for him as she had enjoyed singing and showing off before her uncles and aunts. But he came everyday, day in and day out, and she had to be dragged away from her dolls or skipping rope.

“Ram Nam Rasa” sand Nimmu watching the birds through the window and longing to be out under the trees.

“Now, look here child,” began the teacher, “you shouldn’t drag it out like that. Here listen to me” He sang the same tune in a different manner and Nimmu tried to match her clear treble to his voice. Again and again the tune was repeated till the child could bear it no longer and her voice cracked under the strain.

For the first time, Nirmala realized that she could not just let the music flow out of her naturally but had to order it, contain it, according to the rules. The uninhibited flow of sound which had give such spontaneous joy to singer and listener alike yielded to a self-conscious struggle with the recalcitrant vocal chords.

The next time Nimmu went on-stage, her hands were clammy with sweat and her eyes full of uncertainty. She sang jerkily, taking great pains to follow all the directions her teacher had given her. When her voice reached the highest note of the tune, it slid into a discordant, ear-rending pitch. With a loud sob, the little girl sped out of the hall, tears streaming down her desolate face.

After that, no persuasions on the part of anyone could make her sing again. Nimmu became a silent, withdrawn child. She kept away from people and spent hours by herself wordlessly gazing into space.

“It is the evil eye,” said her mother, Lakshmi. “Oh! Some old sinner has cast the devil’s look upon my sweet child!” She moaned and tried to pacify the gods in various ways.

But Nirmala remained the same strangely quiet child with few words for anyone. For sometime, people talked of her unusual talent and the untimely end it had come to, but soon she was forgotten.

It was one of those glorious days of spring, when even the old, gnarled trees had brought forth of their sap and burst into gorgeous colour; a day so rare in its radiant beauty that it left few people unmoved. Nirmala, now a shy, reserved young woman looked out of the window and watched the sparrows tittering away among the lush foliage of the trees.

She came into the garden, unconsciously humming to herself. “Paga Ghunghuroo Re –” A gentle breeze rustled the leaves and the hum turned into a light, melodious song. There was a faint, reminiscent smile on Nirmala’s face as she heard her own voice again after years, skimming along faster and faster, and her feet tapped out the rhythm on the soft grass.