Yesterday I had been at my cousin's house in the country. I think I presented it in the first part of this epistle, like the soprano. She, when I met her, was probably in a very critical situation, after an important operation of the throat as a result of malignant growth in these regions that practically took away her beautiful voice. Surgeons have successfully used a prosthetic plunger inside throat cavity to work with the lost vocal cords. That in the future would work as her voice organ. But when I met my cousin in her room in the country, she looked weak but elegant. Her country house was a refuge for chickens, dogs, rats, scorpions, and cats of different colors and temperaments. Her brother was particularly attached to felines because he held they would take away the negative energy of the house, but the soprano did not believe in that. In her room, which was a sort of repository of musical devices, I was amazed in the first place by the loss of strength of her whole being. She, however, smiled gently as if to remind me that even a more deadly illness could not take away her grace and courtesy. And these were in fact as extra tips to her disposition in all our last years of fellowship.
This first-born soprano was elder to me by a couple of years and belonged to my mother's line, that witnessed a large number of changes in recent times. She sojourned with us in our family for three years during her college times, because the settlement where she abode with her parents did not have a regular prestigious academy. The college in our region was an establishment more than a hundred years old, named after a British queen who ruled the many colonies of Great Britain. But after Independence, the administration did not alter the title of the university because the name was already well accepted and had produced celebrated alumni and changing the name at this stage would be ludicrous.
When she lived with us, she was given a cabin on the west edge of the principal residence and overlooking it was a jasmine garden and sometimes the children from the neighboring houses, would come to pluck the jasmine buds. My cousin, surprisingly, will not adorn her hair with flowers, which usually a girl of her age in our culture will never do, if she is not a maverick. Because the cultural standards of the area linked the beauty of a girl with the long hair and flowers in those times. The hair was regularly washed with the application of coconut oil [which was available in penty] and gave the hair an additional shine that lasted all the day, despite dust and travel. My cousin did not use flowers and wore very simple ornaments, a gold bracelet on her left wrist and a beautiful watch on his other wrist. She had a dignified bearing, although her face looked like a child and many of the young people who did not know her personally took her for a school girl. My cousin, when she stayed with us, attended the music classes routinely and became the soprano. Her meeting with the soloist was quite accidental because the soloist was already in a European country that followed the upper music course and had just arrived on extended holidays to our place, and as I told you before, he was my neighbor.
When the university commemorated its centennial year, there was a music stand and it exhibited many oriental and western, traditional and current musical instruments, and my cousin was in the custody of the musical stall. She, in fact, did not know about the operation of many European musical instruments and sought the help of the soloist, who was present in the city and who was a teacher of many of them, after having studied with worthy champions of music and he has immersed himself deeply in his work. This long contact in the exhibition booths made them closer, and later they became life partners. But the soprano stopped the music and went to another profession, but sang every evening at regular hours, not for anybody else but herself and perhaps to the wind that blew from the garden and occasionally shut the doors, The soloist, however, continued his vocation, telling everyone he met, that he exists for love, and without music, he cannot find love which finally became his Achilles heel ...
- [From a fictional work that is in progress]
