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Epilogue
Tala approached the house after spending the majority of the day at market. She carried a bag across her back full of goods, and was fiddling with it when she reached the door, so she didn't notice the package and nearly stepped on it. She pulled the door open and it fell against her leg. She looked down and her heart skipped a beat. She put her bag to the side and leaned down to pick it up. It was wrapped in white paper with her name on the front of it. It didn't say who it was from, but she knew. It was in the shape of a record. She went inside slowly, and crossed the room to where her new record player was sitting beneath the window. She sat in the chair there and gazed at the package, her fingers shaking.
It had been over a year and a half. No word from George, and she hadn't attempted to contact him. She learned news through Ravi, or the papers. She had also started a collection of Beatles records, their singles and albums. She knew George wouldn't be overly pleased, but he'd understand. She had become quite a Beatles fan . . . she fell into their music as if it was made for her. She thought nothing of theirs was less then it could have been because of its special quality. It was magic. She never fully understood his band, when he was with her, and when he spoke about it, but the one thing she knew now was that they possessed an extraordinary talent.
She loved the collection, but she liked George's music the best. She was amazed at how he had progressed from the early years, to such songs as "Within You Without You," and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." She heard the change in his voice, the change in his playing and style, how more naturally the words and melodies came to him as the band broke up. She noticed the change in his face too, from the beginning when his smile was broad and shining, to now, drawn and tired. They were rumored to be breaking up. She felt happy for him.
Gently she ripped the side of the paper away and slid it off of the thin object. It was a record, a single, with the words, "Come Together/Something" on the front. It showed the band, crossing a street. George was last, his hair past shoulder length, face distant. She smiled. Gingerly she slipped the record from its folder and looked at it. Tears sprang to her eyes when she saw that "Something" by Harrison, was facing up. His first A-side, she thought happily.
She readied the player, then set the record on. She brought the needle down and closed her eyes. Drums . . . and then his voice reaching out to her from miles away, pleading and tender at the same time. It took her back to the night of the ocean and the fire when he let her hear it for the first time. Her body moved with the rhythm of the song, but it tensed as the nature of the words deepened.
You're asking me will my love grow, I don't know, I don't know . . .
You stick around now, it may show, I don't know, I don't know . . .
Tears welled in her eyes at the pain in his voice, and then at the beauty of his solo, so smooth and beautiful. She remembered the way he caressed her skin and if such and action could be put to music, this would be it. The tears she was fighting began to spill as the song resolved.
Something in the way she knows, and all I have to do is think of her,
Something in the things she shows me, I don't want to leave her now, you know
I believe and how . . .
She took a breath and let the tears fall. She clutched the empty folder to her chest and brought her legs up on the chair. She hadn't cried for him for a long time. In the beginning it was hard, very hard. There would be days when she would mope about, as if in a daze and think of nothing but him. Her body would ache for his touch and her mind would torture her with images of him and wouldn't let her sleep. But gradually, it got better.
She took her journey, and it strengthened her. Through India she prayed and meditated and saw him in the stars and sun and sands. Sometimes she would lay out at night wherever she was, be it Calcutta or Kashmir or Nepal and look to the moon and she would feel a warmth growing around her. She knew that somewhere he was thinking of her too, maybe at that very moment. He loved her still, she could feel his love though they were far apart.
She consoled herself in music as well. Sometimes she would play with Ravi on the tabla, or take a few sitar lessons. Sometimes she would sit at night and listen to Beatles records and smile, remembering him. It did become easier. It wasn't the end of the world though she felt incomplete when he wasn't with her. It hurt too, that there was no correspondence, though there was an agreement that there shouldn't be any. She wondered if he ached to speak to her as well, if only in a letter.
After the tears subsided, she turned and reset the needle of the player and listened to the beautiful "Something" once again. It was a lovely tribute to her, this ageless, wonderful song. It was their secret, a symbol of his love for her. She felt the tears come again, but this time she smiled through them. Maybe they would meet again someday. Something told her they would . . .
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