It was winter morning and the roads were white with intermittent patches of grey

dirt and charcoal. Snow from last night persisted despite being trampled on by
fleets of travellers, cows and carts. The tin roof of the tea stall glistened in the
wavering light of the sun, as it played hide and seek in the now overcast sky.
Warmth trickled down my throat as I sipped my cup of hot chai, breathing in the
fresh cool air of the valley.
My undivided attention towards a clever cur stealing roti from behind the breadvendor was broken by a voice. Singing. A lament of haunting, terrible beauty was
being sung by a woman. It seemed to be carrying from a distant world through the
air to me. I listened on with more intent to discover the source of the sepulchral
melody. Overlooking the creek that abutted the main street was a three storey
bungalow. In the balcony of its third floor, stood a figure clad in a sari as white as
the snow itself. She was singing with a longing in her voice, as if wishing to move
the surrounding mountains to tears.
I tugged at the shirt of the helper boy, as he serviced a frail old gentleman with
another helping of tea. He turned towards me with the steaming kettle, eyes
momentarily fleeting to my cup, asking me lively, Saab, more chai? Ah yes, thank
you, kindly. He broke into a smile, flashing his paan stained teeth, while he poured
me the hot beverage. Do you know the lady, the one who is singing? Her? The
one dressed in white, who is she?
He put the kettle on the table and started arranging buns on a tray. She is the
Vidhwa, widow. Her man died after a month of the marriage. Some say after the
very night of the wedding. She brought bad luck, they say. He dropped his voice to
a whisper. She killed him too! Him too? Was there someone beside the groom,
you mean? He parted his lips for a second, so as to quench my peaking interest in
the tale of the widow, but hesitated to go on. He paused for a breath. Saab, Ustad
will hit me if I chat too long, but Ill tell you after washing the dishes. I nodded; my
wish to know more albeit delayed would be fulfilled.
I looked up to the balcony to find it empty. My ears caught the faint sound of
ghungroo-anklets with tiny bells attached to them, worn by dancers- along with
the vestige of the song formerly being sung. A short while later my young friend
reappeared. His sly grin and glimmer in his eyes were a testament to the
scandalous story he was eager to share with me. She used to be quite a dancer,
they say. Once her man passed, she grew dull and talked little, stopped dancing.
Her family wanted her to be, well, not gloomy all day and all night, persuaded her to
dance if it might shake off her grief. Alas! No respite; she would be miserable, round
the clock, like a dry autumn leaf, season after season, until he showed up!
His face lit up as he began to relate, The flute player! Kanha they crowned him,
such was the magic of his bansuri! The best flute player in the world he was! Every
afternoon, while the town slept, by the creek he would play his flute, under the

Gulmohar tree. Hearing his music she would tie the ghungroo to her feet and dance
with abandon! No one knows how he managed to change her mind. They say she
never saw his face, he never saw her dance, yet in the music of his flute and the
chham chham of her footfalls, they were one, as if they had been forged from a
single star! Beneath the midday sun, his flute would drown the skies with its song
and one would hear the chham chham of the Vidhwa who danced!
He stopped speaking, and gazed at the empty balcony for a long moment. An
innocent sadness swept over his unblemished face. One day he went away. Kanha
had left his Radha once again. Every noon, she would wait for him in the balcony, as
if hoping that when he returned, he would see her for the very first time. Every
noon, through summer, fall and winter she waited for the flute player to turn up
under the red Gulmohar tree, playing a sweet tune on his bansuri.
He sighed and continued, In spring news came he had died of fever, breathing his
last in a tavern twenty miles from the Capital. Ever since, no one has heard the
chham chham of her ghungroo. Sometimes she sings, beckoning the birds to deliver
her songs to him in Vaikunth, but alas! No one knows.
His eyes brimming with tears, the boy mumbled an inaudible excuse and ran off. I
noticed the midday sun in the sky as I glanced at the still empty balcony. A
nightingale sang in the distance, as the sun hid itself away once again and it began
to snow and for a moment I thought I heard a flute being played, and so I listened
closely, hoping to hear the chham chham of ghungroo.