January 1998. Christmas and New Year have come and gone without Lola’s participation in any festivities outside her dome. People were singing and snogging and throwing up all around Diamond Heart but she confined herself to a private two-person celebration in which she drank a couple of glasses of champagne by way of bringing in the New Year with Noah. ‘Rainbows!’ was her toast. He smiled, possibly anticipating some jollification in his milk.
In the fortnight since her first lesson Lola has been thinking constantly of the sarod. That fretless fingerboard is always in her mind. Every night, before or after other dreams, she sees in dreams her hands on the instrument, hears music she cannot remember. Now she sits crosslegged in the studio holding the sarod and facing Indira.
‘Shisyia,’ says Indira, ‘let me hear the scale please.’
Lola sees her left hand on the fingerboard, her right hand holding the plectrum. ‘Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha, Ni,’ she sings as the sarod goes up the scale.
‘Stop,’ says Indira before Lola can come down the scale. Lola waits in silence to be told what she’s done wrong. ‘This instrument in your hands is not a machine-gun,’ says Indira. ‘You are firing off the notes like bullets and your singing is without heart. Even the smallest act, even the tuning of the sarod, must be done in the proper spirit of devotion. Let yourself always be the true vessel for the music that comes through you. Move your mind away from all bad thoughts, let it be clear and peaceful. The scale again, please. Not so fast this time. Listen to the sounds that are coming from you.’
Lola tries to clear her mind. She can’t do it. Her mind is a kaleidoscope of sounds and images. She tries to bypass these as she goes up the scale again.
‘What I hear is tension,’ says Indira. ‘Put down the sarod. For the rest of this lesson we’ll do breathing exercises.’