Ravishankar: Veena

He placed it on her lap. Her right hand hovered over the main strings, her left over the side strings. For a long moment, nothing. Then her right index finger plucked the tara shadja —the high tonic—and let it ring.

“Arjun,” she said suddenly. “Help me lift the veena.” veena ravishankar

He shook his head.

Arjun leaned forward. “What did it say?” He placed it on her lap

Veena was seventy-two. Her fingers, once celebrated for their lightning gamakas and soulful meends , now trembled with the first whispers of Parkinson’s. The music community had already begun the quiet work of eulogizing her while she still breathed. A legend , they called her. The last custodian of the Tanjore style. Then her right index finger plucked the tara

And somewhere in the dark between the wires, the veena spoke on.