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The musicians sat in a circle. Sripati had the stool in the centre. A slight breeze relieved the weariness of the journey. Now to business.
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To Sripati's right sat Srishtidhar with a drum on his lap. On the left was Adhar with his cornet. In front of him were Mahadeb, Subal, Naren and the other players. They sat leaning against one another, each with an instrument. No one spoke. Somewhat like the silent row of Sal trees seen from the plain. As if sitting in meditation. Sripati took out the flute from his bag and carefully wiped it with a corner of his shirt. The lantern lights slipped off its gleaming bell-metal ornaments. The musicians with their unoiled heads gazed at it with wonder, or were these the grave rows of Sal trees beyond the far plain? Sripati looked up. A sliver of a moon had appeared like a crack in the sky. Like a wedge of milk-white coconut placed on a dish of betel nuts. Strange offering for a strange worship. A rite of silence, of waiting. The master touched the flute to his forehead before bringing it to his lips. At once he could hear the stream of notes from the crackling palm leaves at the grove. The lips touched the flute, they puckered, and then kissed with love. Instantly the air broke in waves: "You pick flowers all night, dear flower-girl, but they never sell."
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Manasha was standing outside the reach of light. Her eyes were shut. Swaying gently the crazy girl listened to the flute.
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Manasha was not seen again that night. Sripati's bed was made in a little room with a porch leading to the yard. Rice, both boiled and fermented, brought a heavy sleep the moment he lay down. He saw her next day by the pond.
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The level of water had sunk in the wide pond. There was no sludge, and the sand and pebbles below were clearly visible. The smooth sand poured easily over a dipped foot. Sripati, sitting on a flat stone on the bank, was scouring his teeth with a neem twig. It was a pretty place in the daytime. On the other side were a few palms, with saplings and young ones, and three mango trees. Towards the west, by the steep pathway, a lone fig tree surged up at the sky. At the foot of the tree, a dove rested on a vermilion covered stone. Sripati bit on his twig and looked at the sky. A pleasant morning. Spring seemed to have paused at the point of leaving. That news was borne in the feel of the breeze. Lowering his head to rinse his mouth, he saw Manasha coming down by the path on the other side. Her drying cloth wrapped round her, stale clothes on her arm. On seeing Sripati, she stopped herself on the verge of a smile. She thought for a moment, then put down the clothes on the bank and walked along the edge to his side. Flinging the twig into the water, Sripati looked at her, "Well?" "Thief."
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"Where?"
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"Before my eyes."
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Clearly the epithet was meant for him. But why? Manasha looked at his eyes and said, "What are you looking so dumb for?"
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"Humph."
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