Chapter 22: Nandini

# Chapter 22: Nandini

## The New Composition

January second. Nineteen days after the competition.

She returned to the baithak.

Not for practice. Not for a competition. Not for the deal, the deal that had ended on December fourteenth when the trophy was handed and the cheque was issued and the families met over kebab. The deal was done. The exchange was complete. Kathak for attar. Movement for scent. Twenty-one days of marble and tabla and the particular education of two bodies learning each other's languages.

She returned because the baithak was theirs now. The baithak that Junaid had lent them for twenty-one days and that Junaid had continued to lend them after the twenty-one days because Junaid was the kind of friend who understood that lending was not about the object but about the need, and the need had not ended when the competition ended. The need had changed, the need had shifted from we need a space to practise to we need a space to be, the being, which was thing that the competition's end had produced: two people who wanted to be in the same room because the room had become the room where they were most themselves.

She arrived at 4 PM. She arrived wearing, not the lehenga, not the ghungroo, not the performance costume. She arrived wearing what she wore on Sundays: a grey cotton kurta and blue jeans and her Bata chappals, the Bata chappals being the footwear that middle-class Indian women wore for all occasions that were not occasions, the not-occasions being: Sunday afternoons, grocery shopping, the walk to the corner store, the visit to the baithak of a Nawabi haveli to see a man who made perfume.

Ishan was already there. Ishan in his usual. The white kurta and beige salwar, the uniform that was not a uniform but was the daily wear that had become so consistent that it functioned as a uniform, the functioning: she could identify him from a hundred metres by the white-and-beige, the identification: the familiarity that twenty-one-plus-nineteen days had produced: forty days. Forty days of knowing this man.

He was sitting on the floor. Cross-legged. In the centre of the baithak. On the marble. The marble that had held their feet for twenty-one days and that now held his body in the posture of a man who was waiting, the waiting (posture that the marble seemed designed f o)r: sit, wait, the marble's coolness rising through the body's base, the coolness that was marble's greeting, the greeting that said you are here. I remember your feet. Sit.

Sultan was on his shelf. Sultan was asleep — the sleeping, which was Sultan's January activity, January being the cold month, the cold month (month that cats spent sleeping because sl e)eping conserved heat and conserving heat was the cat's evolutionary strategy for winter, the strategy: sleep now, be warm, hunt later.

"Kya kar rahe ho?" she asked. What are you doing?

"Soch raha hoon."

Thinking.

"Kya soch rahe ho?"

What are you thinking?

"Agla attar."

The next attar.

The next attar. The next composition, the composition that would follow Teri Khushboo, the following (perfumer's trajectory): the first composition opened the door, the door opening producing the second composition, the second producing the third, the trajectory, artist's path: one work led to the next, the leading that was work's nature, the nature: creation demanded continuation.

She sat beside him. On the marble. Cross-legged. The marble's coolness rising through the jeans, the jeans: thinner than the lehenga and the thinness transmitting the coolness more directly, the more-directly, which was marble'sJanuary intensity: in December the marble was cold; in January the marble was colder; in January the marble reminded you that marble was stone and stone was the earth's bone and the earth's bone in January was the earth's coldest bone.

"Agla attar kaisa hoga?" she asked. What will the next attar be like?

"Nahi pata. Abhi sirf, abhi sirf samajh raha hoon ki kya chahiye."

I don't know. Right now I'm just; understanding what's needed.

Understanding what's needed. The perfumer's method, the method that she had observed over twenty-one days and that she now recognized as the method: not deciding but discovering. Not choosing the notes but listening for the notes. The listening — the perfumer's skill — the skill that was not taught but cultivated, the cultivation, which was: years of smelling, years of comparing, years of sitting with the bottles and the copper deg and the sandalwood base and the patience.

"Main tumhe ek cheez bataun?" she said. Can I tell you something?

"Haan."

"Mujhe; mujhe Kathak phir se padhani hai."

I want to — I want to teach Kathak again.

The sentence. The sentence, the sentence; thing that had been forming since the stage, forming in the nineteen days since December fourteenth, forming in the space that the competition had opened and that the fog-bench had widened and that the families-over-kebab had endorsed and that the nineteen days of reflection had solidified: I want to teach Kathak.

"Kisko?" he asked. To whom?

"Sabko. Kisi ko bhi. Bacchon ko. Bade logon ko. Kisi ko bhi jo seekhna chahta hai."

Everyone. Anyone. Children. Adults. Anyone who wants to learn.

"TCS chhod rahi ho?"

Are you leaving TCS?

"Nahi. Abhi nahi. Lekin: lekin weekends pe. Evenings mein. Yahan. Is baithak mein.

No. Not yet. But; on weekends. In the evenings. Here, in this baithak. If Junaid agrees.

The baithak as a dance school. The Nawabi haveli's baithak, the room that had been built for mehfils and that had held mehfils for a hundred years and that had been empty for thirty years and that had held their practice for twenty-one days — the baithak becoming a Kathak school. The becoming, the room's resurrection, the resurrection that was not their resurrection (their resurrection was the competition, their resurrection was finished) but the room's resurrection: the room returning to its purpose, the purpose: gathering. Performance. The thing that the room was designed for.

"Junaid haan bolega," Ishan said. Junaid will say yes.

"Tumhe kaise pata?"

How do you know?

"Kyunki Junaid ne bola tha. Rehearsal ke din, Junaid ne bola tha: 'This room is doing what it was built to do.' Agar yeh room yeh kar raha tha jab hum do log naach rahe the — toh yeh room yeh aur zyaada karega jab das log naach rahe honge. Bees log. Pachaas log."

Because Junaid said; on rehearsal day, Junaid said: 'This room is doing what it was built to do.' If this room was doing that when two people were dancing, then this room will do it even more when ten people are dancing. Twenty people. Fifty people. She extended her wrist. His fingers steadied it. The contact was brief, dry, precise.

The logic, the engineer's logic; the logic of a man who understood structures and who understood that structures performed their function best when they were used for their function, the using: function's fulfilment, the fulfilment: a baithak used for Kathak was a baithak fulfilling its destiny.

She leaned against him. She leaned her head against his shoulder, the shoulder that she had held during the pair work and that she now rested against, the resting, which was different from the holding: the holding was choreography, the resting was choice. The choice: I choose to be close. I choose this shoulder. I choose this man.

The marble was cold. The January afternoon was cold. Sultan was asleep. The haveli's arched windows framed the Qaiserbagh sky — the sky: Lucknow's January sky: grey, low, the clouds carrying the fog that would descend at 6 PM and that would cover the city in the white blanket that December and January shared.

"Ishan."

"Haan?"

"Tumne mujhe chhe attar sikhaye. Gulab. Khus. Mitti. Mogra. Hina. Chandan."

You taught me six attars. Rose. Khus. Mitti. Mogra. Hina. Sandalwood.

"Haan."

"Aur tumne mujhe ek saatva attar diya. Teri Khushboo.

And you gave me a seventh attar. Teri Khushboo. The first one you made.

"Haan."

"Main, main bhi tumhe kuch dena chahti hoon."

I want to give you something too.

She stood. She stood on the marble; barefoot, the chappals removed at the baithak's entrance, the removing. Ritual that twenty-one days had established and that forty days had not undone: enter the baithak, remove the shoes, the removing: respect for the floor, the floor that held the dance.

She walked to the centre of the room. She stood in the centre. She stood in the position that twenty-one days had inscribed in her body: feet together, spine straight, arms at the sides, head level, the thread from the crown.

Sama. Equipoise. The beginning and the end.

She began to dance. She began without music; without the tabla, without the sitar, without the JBL speaker. She began in silence. In the stillness that the baithak provided, the stillness that was not the stage's silence (the stage's silence had contained a thousand people's breath) but the baithak's silence, the silence that contained only the marble and the light and the man and the cat.

She danced the solo tatkar. Slow. The slow that was the beginning. The beginning that built to moderate that built to fast. But she did not build. She stayed slow. She stayed in the slow because the slow was the gift — the gift that she was giving him, the gift: *this is not performance. This is not competition. This is the dance itself. The dance without the audience. The dance without the judges. The dance without the cheque.

The slow tatkar on the marble. Her feet, the feet that had struck the wooden stage in December and that were now on the marble in January. Her feet speaking the language that Nani had taught them, the language that fifteen years of silence had preserved and that twenty-one days of practice had released and that was now, the language was now hers. Not Nani's. Not the competition's. Not the baithak's. Hers. The language that a dancer possessed when the dancer had mourned and returned and performed and won and rested and returned again: the language of a woman who danced because dancing was who she was.

The ghungroo were not on her feet. The ghungroo were at home; in the cloth pouch on the shelf. The dance was without bells. The dance was feet on marble. The sound —: the purest Kathak sound. The sound that no bell accompanied and no tabla accompanied and no sitar accompanied. The sound of one woman's feet on one stone floor in one room in one city in one country in one afternoon in January.

She stopped. Sama. Stillness.

She looked at him. He was, he was crying. The crying: silent. The silent crying of a man who did not cry easily and who was crying now because the thing he had seen was the thing that moved him: a woman dancing for him. Not for a competition. Not for a prize. Not for a cheque or a stage or a thousand people. For him. The dance that was his: the dance that she had given him the way he had given her the attar: as a composition. As a first. As the thing that said: this is you. Translated into my language.

"Yeh tumhare liye hai," she said. This is for you.

"Iska naam kya hai?" he asked. The question, .

She smiled. She smiled the smile that she smiled when the data matched the prediction, when the spreadsheet balanced, when the equation resolved.

"Teri Khushboo," she said.

Your fragrance.

The same name. The same two words. The attar and the dance sharing the name — the sharing (composition's completion): he had composed an attar and named it for her. She had composed a dance and named it for him. The two compositions: one olfactory, one kinetic; carrying the same name because the name was not about the attar or the dance but about the thing between them, the thing that the attar and the dance both expressed: you are my composition. You are the thing I made from everything I know. You are my first original work. You are the notes I chose and the rhythm I built and the silence I held and the ending I found.

He stood. He walked to her. Across the marble, across the twenty feet that had been the baithak's distance, the distance that had separated them on Day One and that had shrunk through twenty-one days of practice and that now, on Day Forty, was zero.

He stood in front of her. He reached into his kurta pocket. He removed, a bottle. Not the 3ml bottle. A different bottle. A 10ml bottle. The bottle's label reading: Teri Khushboo; Batch 2. She pressed harder. The ink spread into the fibres.

"Batch 2?" she asked.

"Haan. Pehla batch, pehla batch tumhare liye tha. Yeh doosra batch, yeh doosra batch humara hai."

Yes. The first batch, the first batch was for you. This second batch. This second batch is ours.

Ours. The word that changed the pronoun, the word that moved from teri (yours) to humara (ours), the moving: the shift that forty days had produced: from the singular to the plural, from the individual to the shared, from the perfumer and the dancer to the us.

She took the bottle. She uncapped it. She brought it to her nose.

The same six notes, rose, khus, mitti, mogra, hina, sandalwood. The same composition. But different. Different the way a second batch was always different from the first, the difference that was perfumer's growth, the growth between the first and the second —: confidence. The first batch had been tentative: the notes placed carefully, the ratios measured, the composition: first word in a new language. The second batch was fluent, the notes flowing into each other with the ease that fluency produced, the ease: *I know this language now. I know these notes. I know what they say together.

The attar on her wrist. The January light through the arched windows. The marble under their feet. Sultan asleep on his shelf. The haveli holding them the way the sandalwood held the attar: as the base. As the foundation. As the thing that remained when everything else evaporated.

She placed the bottle on the marble. She took his hand, his right hand, the hand that applied the attar, the hand that she had held in the shamiana before the performance, the hand that had been cold with nervousness and that was now warm with January's indoor warmth.

"Humara," she said.

Ours.

The word settling in the baithak. The word settling on the marble. The word settling in the air that the oud incense had not reached and that the rose attar had reached and that the word now reached, the word joining the scent, the scent, the room's memory: oud from the incense, rose from the attar, and now humara from the two people who stood in the room's centre and who had made the room their own.

Outside, the January sky was grey. The fog was forming, the fog that would cover Lucknow at 6 PM and that would dissolve at 10 AM and that would cover and dissolve and cover and dissolve for the rest of January and into February, the covering-and-dissolving being Lucknow's winter rhythm, the rhythm that the city had performed for centuries and that the city would perform for centuries more.

Inside, the baithak. Inside, the marble. Inside, the light.

Inside, two people who had been a deal and who had become a composition.

Inside, the fragrance of everything they had made together — the Kathak and the attar and the marble and the stage and the fog and the families and the grief and the healing and the twenty-one days that had become forty days that would become, that would become whatever they would become. The whatever: the future. The future, the territory that no spreadsheet could predict and no attar could capture and no tatkar could anticipate. The future, the only note that the composition had not yet revealed — the note that would reveal itself in time, in the way that base notes revealed themselves: slowly, persistently, after the top notes faded and the heart notes settled and the base note remained.

The base note remained.

Rose is love. Khus is home. Mitti is waiting. Mogra is strength. Hina is memory. Sandalwood is foundation.

And teri khushboo. Your fragrance — is everything together.

Everything together.

On marble. In January. In Lucknow.

Sama.