the music teacher's wife learned from Mohammed-sahib that her husband had refused to let Imrat perform at the home of a great sahib.
"And he was offering the sum of five thousand rupees to listen to the blind boy," Mohammedsahib said in awe.
"Five thousand rupees!" Master Mohan's wife shrieked. "He turned down five thousand rupees when his own children do not have enough to eat and nothing to wear! Where can I find those men?"
That night the music teacher helped Imrat into the house. To his distress, he found his wife entertaining the two men who had come so often to the park.
She waved a sheaf of notes in Master Mohan's face. "I have agreed the brat will sing before the sahib tonight. See, they have already paid me. Five thousand rupees will cover a litde of what I have spent on this blind beggar over the last year."
The music teacher tried to object but Imrat intruded on his arguments. "I am not tired, Mastersahib."
"Waited on hand and foot by our entire household! Why should you be tired?" She grabbed the boy's arm. "I'm coming myself to make sure you sing properly to pay for all the meals you have eaten at our table."
The two men smiled victoriously at the music teacher. "Our rickshaws are waiting at the corner of the street."
As they rode to the great sahib's house, Master Mohan felt tears on his cheeks. In a week Imrat would be gone, leaving him imprisoned again in his hateful household. He hugged Imrat to his chest, his sighs lost in the rasping breathing of the man straining between the wooden shafts of the rickshaw.
At the high iron gates of a mansion the rickshaws halted. A guard opened the gates and Master Mohan's wife seized Imrat's arm, pulling him roughly behind her as servants ushered them through a series of dimly lit chambers into a dark room empty of furniture.
Wooden shutters sealed the French doors on either side of the room, and large patches of paint peeled from the walls. The floor was covered by a Persian carpet that extended from the door to a raised platform. Above the platform two unused chandeliers hung from the ceiling, shrouded in muslin like corpses.
A man sat on the platform, his size exaggerated by the candles burning on either side of him. The musicians bowed to him obsequiously. The sahib ignored them. Still smiling, the musicians climbed onto the platform where a harmonium and drums were placed in readiness for the concert.
"Come here, little master," the great sahib said. "I am told you have a voice such as India has not heard for hundreds of years."
Master Mohan's wife released her hold on the boy, and the music teacher led him to the platform, grateful that Imrat could not see this empty room with its sealed wooden shutters and the shadows flickering on the peeling walls. As he helped him up the stairs, the music teacher whispered in Imrat's ear, "Only sing the two songs from your record. Then we can go home."
"Soon I will be with my sister again," Imrat answered in a whisper as Master Mohan gently pushed him down in front of the two musicians. "Tonight I must thank Allah for his kindness." For a few minutes only the music of the harmonium echoed through the heavy shadows of the room, and Master Mohan could feel his wife shifting restlessly from foot to foot at his side. Then Imrat's clear voice pierced the darkness.
"/ prostrate my head to Your drawn sword. 0, the wonder of Your kindness. O, the wonder of my submission.
"Do not reveal the Truth in a world where blasphemy prevails.
0 wondrous Source of Mystery. 0 Knower of Secrets. "
The boy's sighdess eyes seemed fixed on infinity, and it seemed to Master Mohan that the candies in the shrouded chandeliers were leaping into flame, ignited by Imrat's innocent devotion as he sang,
"In the very spasm of death I see Your face.
0, the wonder of my submission.
0, the wonder of Your protection. "
Listening to the purity of each note, Master Mohan felt himself being lifted into another dimension, into the mystic raptures of the Sufis who
"And he was offering the sum of five thousand rupees to listen to the blind boy," Mohammedsahib said in awe.
"Five thousand rupees!" Master Mohan's wife shrieked. "He turned down five thousand rupees when his own children do not have enough to eat and nothing to wear! Where can I find those men?"
That night the music teacher helped Imrat into the house. To his distress, he found his wife entertaining the two men who had come so often to the park.
She waved a sheaf of notes in Master Mohan's face. "I have agreed the brat will sing before the sahib tonight. See, they have already paid me. Five thousand rupees will cover a litde of what I have spent on this blind beggar over the last year."
The music teacher tried to object but Imrat intruded on his arguments. "I am not tired, Mastersahib."
"Waited on hand and foot by our entire household! Why should you be tired?" She grabbed the boy's arm. "I'm coming myself to make sure you sing properly to pay for all the meals you have eaten at our table."
The two men smiled victoriously at the music teacher. "Our rickshaws are waiting at the corner of the street."
As they rode to the great sahib's house, Master Mohan felt tears on his cheeks. In a week Imrat would be gone, leaving him imprisoned again in his hateful household. He hugged Imrat to his chest, his sighs lost in the rasping breathing of the man straining between the wooden shafts of the rickshaw.
At the high iron gates of a mansion the rickshaws halted. A guard opened the gates and Master Mohan's wife seized Imrat's arm, pulling him roughly behind her as servants ushered them through a series of dimly lit chambers into a dark room empty of furniture.
Wooden shutters sealed the French doors on either side of the room, and large patches of paint peeled from the walls. The floor was covered by a Persian carpet that extended from the door to a raised platform. Above the platform two unused chandeliers hung from the ceiling, shrouded in muslin like corpses.
A man sat on the platform, his size exaggerated by the candles burning on either side of him. The musicians bowed to him obsequiously. The sahib ignored them. Still smiling, the musicians climbed onto the platform where a harmonium and drums were placed in readiness for the concert.
"Come here, little master," the great sahib said. "I am told you have a voice such as India has not heard for hundreds of years."
Master Mohan's wife released her hold on the boy, and the music teacher led him to the platform, grateful that Imrat could not see this empty room with its sealed wooden shutters and the shadows flickering on the peeling walls. As he helped him up the stairs, the music teacher whispered in Imrat's ear, "Only sing the two songs from your record. Then we can go home."
"Soon I will be with my sister again," Imrat answered in a whisper as Master Mohan gently pushed him down in front of the two musicians. "Tonight I must thank Allah for his kindness." For a few minutes only the music of the harmonium echoed through the heavy shadows of the room, and Master Mohan could feel his wife shifting restlessly from foot to foot at his side. Then Imrat's clear voice pierced the darkness.
"/ prostrate my head to Your drawn sword. 0, the wonder of Your kindness. O, the wonder of my submission.
"Do not reveal the Truth in a world where blasphemy prevails.
0 wondrous Source of Mystery. 0 Knower of Secrets. "
The boy's sighdess eyes seemed fixed on infinity, and it seemed to Master Mohan that the candies in the shrouded chandeliers were leaping into flame, ignited by Imrat's innocent devotion as he sang,
"In the very spasm of death I see Your face.
0, the wonder of my submission.
0, the wonder of Your protection. "
Listening to the purity of each note, Master Mohan felt himself being lifted into another dimension, into the mystic raptures of the Sufis who
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