In Her Voice

I remembered my own name for the first time when I heard her sing.

It was in the college auditorium—dull lights, soft whispers, a sense of apprehensive expectation. The music recital, an annual event, had just begun, and I, a second-year student of classical vocal music, had taken my seat in the back row. I had come for the music, I had told myself. But when she took the stage, there was nothing else.

Her name was Asha. A first-year student, barely known to the department, yet her presence had a stillness that demanded silence. Then she opened her mouth and sang.

Raag Yaman.

Not only the notes, but its very heart. The way she sprang from Sa to Pa was like the exhilaration of a bird when it finds the wind for the first time. Her voice was untrained—raw, innocent—but her soul had already learned the self-discipline that it takes years to master: release.

We Met Through Music

I met her backstage following the recital, cross-legged on the floor, drinking lukewarm chai.

"You held Yaman like it was your first love," I told her. I hadn't meant to flirt. I just couldn't avoid the truth.

She smiled. "It is."

That's how we began. We met up after class, between practice periods. She'd sometimes lose her words, and I'd fill them in her notebook. Sometimes I couldn't hit the pitch, and she'd close her eyes and hum the tonic until my voice dropped into place.

We didn't need to say the "I love you." We said:

"Take your breath before the komal gandhar."

"Start gently—let the alaap breathe before you construct."

"You're going too hard in the antara. Make it float."

Love is Riyaz

It's ironic how love also taught us Riyaz (practice), and Riyaz taught us love. Vocal training is not glamorous. It's waking up at dawn, singing the same note ad infinitum until your throat aches and your soul remains still. It's discipline, patience, surrender.

And so is love.

We clashed—she felt I was too stern; I felt she was too spontaneous. But we always ended up returning to the tanpura—to the note that recalled us to our starting point. When our notes blended in instant harmony, all debate disappeared in raga.

I remember once, before a big duet performance, there was a terrible fight. I wanted to start with Raag Bageshree, she insisted on Desh. We did not talk for a day.

But on stage, we chose Raag Kedar. It was not a choice. Our eyes met, she nodded, and my voice followed her.

That was love.

The Final Lesson

In our third year, she was awarded a scholarship to go and study music at a music college in Lucknow. I stayed behind, providing beginner lessons at the college.

Our farewell was simple.

She touched my feet like a dutiful student.

And I took her hand like a dutiful lover.

"You taught me to listen," she said.

"You taught me to sing," I said.

Years later, I heard her on the radio.

Same voice. Wiser. Fuller. Stronger.

As I listened, I remembered what our teacher used to tell us: "The voice ages with pain, not years. And when you learn to sing through hurt, you'll at last understand what love is."

She knew.

And so did I.