Free Vanished by Sheela Chari

get back to their seats. She leaned in further to catch the last of his words, and bumped into the photographer by mistake.
    â€œWatch it, kid,” the woman said. She was pretty, but her face was sharp and unsmiling.
    â€œExcuse me, we’re supposed to sit down,” Neela said coolly. She hated being called “kid.”
    The woman ignored her but stepped to the side to let Neela pass. By now, the young man had finished his conversation, and Tannenbaum returned to his place onstage. The lights flickered again, and everyone took their seats. As Neela sat down, she looked for the young man with the ruby ring, and the blond photographer, but they had disappeared into the shadows of the audience.

    After the concert, on their way back to the car, Neela’s parents talked about Professor Tannenbaum. They said he was just as good as any player from India.
    â€œEven his pronunciations were excellent,” Mr. Krishnan observed.
    Behind them, around the corner, Neela heard a woman’s voice.
    â€œI think these photos are enough…Why didn’t I think of Tannenbaum before?”
    â€œNo…” came a man’s voice. “You have to…” muffled words, then, “…a Guru original.”
    Neela turned around. Before her appeared the Indian man with the ruby ring, and the mean woman with the camera. They walked past Neela without even looking at her, and went inside a coffee shop. Neela stared at them through the window of the shop. They were in line at the counter, still talking. The woman waved her arms as she spoke, and the man twirled his ring around and around his finger. Had he really said “Guru original”? Like what Sudha Auntie had said about the missing veena?
    â€œNeela!” their mother called from the car. “What are you doing?”
    Neela stood rooted to the ground. She desperately wished to hear what they were saying. How often did you hear someone on the street talking about a Guru original? She glanced at her mother. “I’m getting a drink of water,” she yelled, and went into the coffee shop before her mother could stop her.
    By now, the man and woman had bought their coffee and were sitting at a table near the counter with the condiments and napkins. Neela pretended to get a napkin, and stood nearby trying to hear what they were saying.
    â€œI wasn’t sure my e-mail would reach you before you went back to India,” the woman said. “My friend said you’re only here for a short while. So I guess I lucked out.”
    â€œI’m happy to be at your service,” the man said.
    â€œI have to admit, you’re a lot younger than I expected. What are you, fifteen?”
    He smiled. “I finished college last year. But I’ve learned a lot over the years working with my father.”
    â€œWell, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.” She glanced through some notes. “Like I asked in my e-mail, can you tell me again what a Guru original is?”
    The young man took a gulp of his coffee. “It is a term our customers came up with, named after one of our most beloved artisans, Guru. His veenas are called Guru originals, as opposed to instruments made by other veena makers that try to imitate his workmanship.”
    She fixed an intent look on his face. “So, then, they’re valuable. Like a Stradivarius?”
    He laughed. “The famous violins of Italy. I hear people have tried for years to figure out the secret behind the beautiful sound. Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
    The woman waited. “You haven’t answered my question.”
    He stopped smiling. “I do not know if I can. The wood Guru used to make his instruments came from a very special area in South India, near the district of Thanjavur. Ordinarily, veenas lose their quality of sound over time as the wood ages. But in the case of Guru, something different happened, maybe because of the particular weather patterns