Everybody Told Everybody So

Words: 997

"Again? Again?"

He didn't hear her. She had known he wouldn't, the exclamation was merely to vent steam. To get his attention, she had to tap him physically – and this she did, so firmly that it bordered on being a 'smack'.

"What?" he gasped, returning abruptly to earth from wherever he had been wandering in his blissful mind. He took his headphones off and looked up at her. "Mom?"

"Yes, Mom. I'm your Mom, Tushar, and this is the third time I've come to your room this morning. The third time."

Her saree pallu had become disarranged. She hitched it back in place, jabbing, pulling and tucking. Tushar knew, as he watched her, that she was beyond irritated. She was really angry. She wouldn't poke and prod herself like that unless she was really angry.

"Mom, sorry, but —"

"There is no BUT, Tushar. Your exam is in two days. Two days. You have to study, not listen to your everlasting music. This is the third time I've come here to find you on the floor with your headphones on and the book upside down somewhere on the bed. Whatever your Dad says ..."

Tushar knew he couldn't let her finish this sentence. His parents had quarreled bitterly about whether his music system should be in his room before and during his exams. His father, arguing that music helped the boy to relax and study better, had won. Now, his mother was threatening to take the music system away.

"That melody got in to my head, Mom," he said. "I couldn't study with it buzzing there so I thought I'd just listen and then ..."

"THREE TIMES?"

"It was stuck in my head, Mom. I'm sorry, I'll study now."

He watched her long black plait swish briskly out behind her and grudgingly reached for the discarded book.

*********

She was beaming with pride. Her husband was beaming with pride. Tushar felt only relief, and the joy of going back to his music, uninterrupted.

He had passed. Not only that, he had secured Rank #24, All-India. He had no idea how he had done it. Lucked out, probably. Everything that he had crammed up had appeared among the questions, the things he had had no time to study hadn't found their way in. It was true, he had felt a tad guilty on catching sight of his best friend, Nikhil's face. Nikhil had studied eight hours a day for weeks, following a scrupulous time-table. Nikhil's name was not among the rank-holders, Tushar's was. The world of academics was a strange place. Very unfair.

The world of music was a haven. You didn't have to cram stuff, you didn't have to make your best friend jealous, you could just follow the rhythm, follow your heart beat, allow your fingers to beat in time ...

This time, both his parents entered his room. He was curled up on the floor, headphones in place. They smiled at each other.

"I told you music helps him relax so he can study better."

"I told you he gets so absorbed in his music, he has to be woken up to do anything else, even study."

They said this simultaneously, and then they laughed. They got his attention by hugging him.

"Mom? Dad?"

Tushar's mouth dropped open in surprise. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. He pinched himself. It was real. He wasn't dreaming. It was real.

His parents were in his room. His Dad was holding up – holding up – three tickets. Three precious, wonderful, amazing tickets.

Three tickets to the Lata Mangeshkar LIVE performance at Shanmukhanand Hall.

Never, never had Tushar hoped he could actually BE there. The dream he had had was of listening to his music teacher, who was among the volunteers for the sound-system, describe the concert to him. He'd sit and listen and imagine himself in the audience —

But that would no longer be necessary.

He was actually going to be there. Really, truly. His parents had managed, somehow, to get those rare tickets. He joined in their laughter. He hugged them back. When he looked up again, it was to wipe his face clean of the tears of joy.

"I told you it's what would make him happiest," both parents said in chorus.

*********

His parents had never known Tushar to be so fastidious about his appearance. He had actually washed his hair, and ironed his already-pressed beige kurta again. He was going to be in the fifth row at Lata Mangeshkar's concert. The fifth row. Practically on stage! The light might spill over on to him, she might catch sight of him. He couldn't bear it if she thought, 'What an untidy boy! Why did he come here, looking so scruffy?'

They knew he wouldn't eat any lunch. Sensibly, his mother packed a snack box for the car ride to the concert. She knew her son. He'd be hungry by then.

She was right. He did eat, and he talked, too, with his mouth full. "What do you think she'll sing? Do you think she'll do Yeh Raat Aur Yeh Doori before or after the intermission? Will she sing Ello Ello by herself, or get in a chorus?"

In the front seat, his parents smiled at each other. "Told you – must not go for a concert with Tushar, he is far too knowledgeable, far too excitable, far too emotional ..." Each knew the other was thinking this, there was no need to voice it.

*********

But there was one 'Told You' his parents had missed out on.

And the boy told them.

Politely and sweetly, but he DID tell them.

They liked music, too. He had inherited his love for it from them, of course.

They knew all the songs by heart. They delighted in these melodies.

And that's why he finally had to tell them.

"Mom and Dad? You mind not humming along so loudly? I'm here to listen to Lady Lata singing, not you."

He told them. And they listened. They piped down.

********* ######### *********