Diya

I wanted to sing with Aman again. I wanted so much to share the flow that we had found together. But first, I had to ask my father for permission to sing. For three long days, I just couldn’t work up the courage. Then, I told myself, what was the use of asking a question to which I already knew the answer?

It was difficult getting Aman on his own. He was always surrounded by friends, but I knew I had to speak to him before rehearsal began. I finally walked up to him as he sat reading under a tree. He looked up at me and smiled. ‘It’s the girl with the voice like sunshine.’

‘I can’t sing,’ I said, blurting out everything I wanted to say in one nervous rush. ‘I mean, I won’t be allowed to. I can’t be part of the band. I can’t come for rehearsals. My father won’t allow me. I’m sorry.’

Aman kept looking up at me. ‘Do you like singing?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Do you sing for your father or yourself?’

‘For myself. I love it. It makes me happy.’

‘Don’t give up on something you love so easily.’ He was looking at me as he said it. ‘Happiness is not so easy to find.’

I thought about that for a long time. With his words, it came home to me that my life was small and poor. There had been so little happiness in it. There had been plenty of duty. My mother had taught me that, because that was all that she had. No love. No happiness. Do your duty and watch life pass by.

Even the music I loved was given to me because my father thought classical music lessons would make me better marriage material. Instead, they became the one thing that held my hand and led me through my days. I couldn’t let go.

Eventually, after thinking and worrying about it for hours, I invented an extra class that took place after college. When I walked through the door for the first rehearsal, Aman smiled at me. Looked up and smiled. Then it hit me—there was one more thing that gave me happiness. Him.