Story Of The Day: The Flute by the River Between men and women, there is no love possible. There is passion .. and, if they are lucky, friendship. As usual, she stood on the rooftop, hidden behind the tall parapet and the jaalis facing the house opposite. The sound of the flute always held her. She found herself humming an old film song under her breath. How had this innocuous sound suddenly blossomed into something that controlled her? He had been there all along. Why now? His sister-in-law had helped her with maths when she was in school. Those days, she would troop over to the older woman with her books, and the flute would disturb their lessons. Bhabhi would fume. “He is good for nothing. Sing, paint, play the flute. He doesn't even go with Bauji to the gurdwara. At least he'd learn some hymns and bani." Years passed. By the time she was in college, the flute no longer disturbed her. It drew her into a reverie. Once, he came into the courtyard to drink water from the hand pump. Lean, handsome, young, with grey eyes that held her gaze. She blushed, and her mole grew darker. "Sohni! Gathering the chillies? Such a small chore, and it's taking you so long!" She had come up to fetch the chillies. Quickly, she gathered up the sheet they were drying on and came down, rubbing her eyes to escape her mother's scrutiny. "The chillies are very sharp. They sting." Her mother chastised her. "You are always avoiding helping at home. Either you are at Bhabhi's, or on the terrace, studying. Sohni hugged her mother, her heart still humming with the flute. She was a tall, thin girl with a square face and a mole on her cheek that grew darker when she blushed. She was pretty in the way that youth allows. Bhabhi had seen the blush and had begun to discourage her visits. The village would soon raise its eyebrows. Her mother finally decided to send her to stitching classes. On her way home, her feet would follow the flute to his room. One knock, and the door would open. He would paint her. When he looked up at her, the goosebumps would come, and the blush, and he would instinctively darken the mole. She would pretend a mosquito had bitten her, scratch at her elbow, and leave quickly. After her results, a proposal came from a distant family. She would not hear of it. She liked Pal. "Pal?" her father thundered. Then, seeing the rebellion in her eyes, he softened. "Go and ask him what he does.” For the first time, she burst into his room boldly . "Tu kujh karda kyun nahin?"(why don’t you do anything) He didn't look up. He hummed, dipped his brush, and made the mole a little darker. "Eh karda haan main."(This is what I do) She knew the flute, the painting, and the humming still controlled her. But in this life, he had lost her. She gave in to the marriage. Pal stayed quiet, sketching her and playing the flute for her. Now he went to the riverbank. Her village lay across the river. He only played and let the river carry his notes, as it carried the years. She was happy and prosperous. But whenever she went to a wedding, the sound of a flute would disturb her. Her hand would go to her elbow. Sohni was indifferent. But with every wedding, every flute, that changed. She worshipped the notes because they controlled her soul. She hated the man who played them. Every time that rooftop song came on, she would switch the TV off. The river went on flowing. The sound of the flute grew weaker with the years, like Pal's breath. Sohni's husband passed away. They had no children. She came back to live with her family. One evening, she went to the river and heard the flute. There was silver in her hair now. He sat on the bank. She stood behind him, humming the song from the rooftop and rubbing her elbow. His flute was a faint hum. He looked back. "Tu hale vi kujh nahin karda na." He raised his hand, as if to touch her mole. They smiled and sat together on the bank. Yeh Raatein Yeh Mausam nadi ka kinara, yeh chanchal hawa….