December 1999. By now Lola finds saris more comfortable than jeans for sitting on the floor to play the sarod. She has a quasi-Persian rug (the best she could do locally) and several cushions. Sitting crosslegged on the floor makes for a kind of thinking that’s different from standing-up or sitting-on-a-chair thinking. The sky is higher, the sea wider. Time stretches out in all directions.
Noah’s sitting near her. He’s wearing a woollen waistcoat crocheted by his mother in broad bumblebee bands of yellow and black. Both he and Mum like the effect and sometimes they have little buzzing conversations. Noah’s first word was ‘deh’. As close as he could get to ‘destiny’, which Lola has evidently murmured more often than she’s been aware of. He’s making good progress on the nakkara, and under Hariprasad’s tutelage is able to keep the beat with a skill beyond his years. He particularly enjoys the slow tempos and repetitions of the Dhrupad style. He accompanies Lola as she plays and sings, in English, her own compositions. ‘Yesterday, yesterday, gone away, here to stay,’ she chants. Noah chants along while beating out the time, tunka tu, tunka tu. He likes to play with words. ‘Dessa nay, yessa nay, onna way, heena say.’ When they come to a pause he says, ‘Dad?’
‘What about him?’ says Lola.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Lola. ‘London, I suppose.’
‘London,’ says Noah. ‘We going?’
‘No,’ says Lola.
‘Dad coming here?’
‘No.’
‘Why no?’
‘That’s just how it is.’
‘His name?’ says Noah.
‘Max,’ says Lola.
There’s someone at the door. Lola opens it to a rush of cold air and Basil. ‘Dad?’ says Noah.
‘No,’ says Lola. ‘Basil.’
‘Lola!’ says Basil. Here he is in his Barbour and cashmere polo-neck, six foot two and ruggedly handsome in a silky way. All the uproar of Christmas in London blows in with him. The lights, the noise, the whole thing. He’s turned Diamond Heart upside-down and a little sparkling snowfall seems to come down around him. Mwah, mwah! Big hug. He pauses to clock Noah. ‘Yellow and black stripes,’ he says. ‘But not a WASP.’ He reaches out to pat Noah on the head. Noah backs away.
‘I told Mummy and Daddy not to tell you I was here,’ says Lola.
‘You can’t blame them,’ says Basil. ‘They’re worried about you, Lo, and so am I.’
‘You can call me Lola,’ says Lola. ‘I’m sorry you travelled all this way for nothing. You must have many things to do back in London. Don’t let me keep you.’
‘Why are you being so hostile? What’s bothering you?’
‘Now is bothering me, Basil, and I need to be left alone to get on with it.’
‘You mean Now with a capital N?’
‘That’s what I mean: the big Now that includes everything all the way back to before there was anything.’
‘Before there was form, before there was emptiness?’
‘What do you know about form and emptiness?’
‘I had a Buddhist wisdom period when I was about your age, Lola.’ He coughs, falls silent for a moment. Then his voice changes. ‘Right now what I know is the emptiness of life without you.’
‘Don’t, Basil. Now is where you mostly don’t get what you want. I can say it better with the sarod. Listen.’ Lola has begun, sooner than Indira expected, to compose a raga of her own. It has the same title as Indira’s: ‘Smriti’.’Memory’. She begins the first melodic sequence, letting herself be the vessel for what has come to her. Noah is with her on the nakkara. Lola has composed only the opening of the raga but as she plays, she hears more and goes with it. Happiness, sadness, longing and regret. She loses track of time, barely noticing the cold air when the door opens and closes. When she’s gone as far as she can with the music she looks up. She and Noah are alone.