Notes of Us

I did not fall in love with her eyes.

Not her smile.

Not even her name.

I fell in love with her voice—

Before I ever knew the rest.

The First Meeting

It was a Monday morning. Our vocal music teacher had assigned us all to sing a simple raag alap. I was the first, fumbling, clumsy, nervous. Then she stood up.

Her name was Raina. Not a trace of makeup on her face, no acting in her step. But when she sang—Raag Bhairav, soft and spooky—the whole room froze.

I didn't even realize I'd stopped breathing.

When she finished, our teacher said to her, "You don't have to sing louder. You have to sing truer—like her."

That made me feel two things at once:

Jealousy.

And wonder.

Riyaz Turned Into Friendship

Raina and I both were graded together during night practice. My teacher believed that two voices can pull each other down or pull each other further up.

We were the latter.

We talked music and nothing else at first. She tuned my tanpura properly. I reminded her of taals when she lost the beat.

But gradually, the silence in between the notes began speaking.

"Your pitch is more stable today," she'd smile.

"Because you showed me how to listen," I replied.

I didn't realize it at the time, but we were falling in love—only the way musicians do. Not in appearance, but in pitch.in breath,

in discipline,

in the unspoken emotion behind every Meend (glissando between notes).

A Love Letter in Raag

We composed our first duet for a college competition—Raag Yaman Kalyan.

She started the alaap, and I echoed the bandish.

She shot me a glance when we hit the sargam, and I knew—

this was not a show.

This was a confession.

We never ever uttered "I love you" aloud.

We simply sang it in different swaras.

In our silences.

In our fizzes.

In our flawless, fractured jugalbandi.

When We Hit a Wrong Note

Love, as in music, is not flawless.

We had our moments—misunderstandings, creative differences, egos clashing like cymbals out-of-tune.

But our music always reminded us.

We'd sit before the tanpura, angry, wordless.

Then someone would sing Sa.

The other would play Re.

And we'd begin all over again.

The Last Performance

During the last year, she was admitted to a famous conservatory abroad. I stayed behind to teach small children at a music school.

When she left, we performed together in one final concert.

No practice. No definite raag.

We looked at each other.

She began in Raag Marwa. I followed her by nature.

Every note a recollection.

Every phrase, a goodbye.

When our voices reached the final Sa, I looked at her—

and realized:

Our story never was about falling in love.

It was about discovering to love—

by patience, by discipline, by music.