Nathua replied, ‘Not as yet, but if you teach me I will.’
‘Don’t make excuses, sit down; first let’s hear you sing something and find out whether you have a good voice or not, otherwise how can one teach you?’
Like all the boys of the bazaar, Nathua also knew how to sing a little. He often sang and hummed while walking on the road. So he promptly broke into song. The teacher, respectfully called the ustad, heard him and understood that the boy was not worthless. He asked Nathua, ‘Where do you live?’
Nathua introduced himself and poured out his tale of misery. He not only found shelter there but also got the chance to grow in a way that raised him from the earth and catapulted him into the heavens.3
Three years flew by. Nathua’s singing became the talk of the town. Singing wasn’t the only thing he excelled in; his talents were manifold. In addition to singing, he played the shehnai, pakhawaj, sarangi, tamboura, and sitar—and he was skilled in all. Even his teachers wondered at his amazing genius. It seemed as though he was merely honing what he already knew. People practise playing the sitar for as long as ten years and still fail to learn it but Nathua had mastered its strings in just one month. So many gems like Nathua are lost in the dust because they do not meet a person discerning enough to see their hidden brilliance.
Serendipitously, a music conference was organized at Gwalior one day. Distinguished musicians from the country and abroad were invited. Nathua’s teacher Ustad Ghurey also received an invitation. Nathua was his student. The ustad took Nathua along with him to Gwalior. The celebration went on for a week there. Nathua earned a lot of fame at the conference. He won a gold medal. The chairman of the music school of Gwalior requested Ustad Ghurey to admit Nathua into his music school. He would be taught music at the school and be educated as well. Ghurey consented and Nathua agreed to study there.
In five years Nathua had earned the highest degree of the school. Apart from music, he also showed proficiency in language, mathematics and science. He now had an honourable place in society. No one asked him his caste any more. His lifestyle, habits and demeanour were not of the low-caste singers but of an educated and genteel person. To safeguard his dignity be began to behave like high-caste people. He gave up meat and drink and took to regular puja. Not even a high-born Brahmin could have observed custom and conduct as he did. He was already known as Nathuram; now his name was further refined to N.R. Acharya. Often, he was simply called ‘acharya’, the learned and accomplished one. The acharya was also addressed as ‘mahashay’, or gentleman. Furthermore, the royal court began to give him a good salary. Very rarely does a talented man achieve such fame at the age of eighteen. However, the thirst for fame is never quenched. It is akin to the thirst of Rishi Agastya who drank up the ocean and was still not sated. The acharya also wanted to excel in Western music. He enrolled in the best music school of Germany and after five years of unrelenting labour and hard work he earned a master’s degree. He toured Italy before returning to Gwalior and within one week of his arrival he was appointed by the Madan Company as inspector of their branches, with a monthly salary of three thousand rupees. Before going to Europe he had already made thousands of rupees. In Europe, too, the opera houses and theatres had welcomed him magnanimously and on some days he had earned more than a singer back home made in years. On his return the acharya was drawn towards Lucknow and decided to settle there.4
When Acharya Mahashay reached Lucknow he was overwhelmed with emotion. He had spent his childhood here—he remembered how, as an orphan, he used to rob the square kites in these very alleys, and how he had gone begging in these bazaars. Ah! He was flogged here—he still carried the stripes of the whipping on his body. But now he held these scars dearer than the lines of fortune. In fact, for him the strokes of the whip had been a boon from Shiva.
There were no feelings of anger or revenge for Rai Sahib in his heart, not even a jot. He only remembered Rai Sahib’s goodness; and he remembered Ratna as the very image of kindness and affection. For misfortune deepens old wounds, but fortune fills them up! The acharya alighted from the train with a palpitating heart. The ten-year-old boy had grown into a twenty-three-year-old learned and gracious young man. Now, not even his mother could have known him as her own Nathua. However, his transformation was considerably less amazing than the metamorphosis of the town. This was not Lucknow, but another city altogether!
As he emerged from the station his eyes fell on the people of the town, the prominent as well as the ordinary, waiting to welcome him. One of them was a beautiful young woman who resembled Ratna. The men shook his hand while Ratna garlanded him. This gracious welcome was accorded to him for bringing fame to Bharat in distant lands. The acharya’s legs began to tremble; he found it difficult to stand still. This was the same Ratna! The innocent girl-child had taken the form of the Goddess of beauty, modesty, pride and grace. He did not have the courage to look straight into her eyes.
After the courtesies he was taken to the bungalow prepared for him. He was startled when he saw that it was the same mansion where he used to play with Ratna; the furnishings were the same, the pictures, chairs, tables and the gleaming mirrors were all the same . . .
