NCERT Solutions for Class 9th English Chapter 6 Twin Melodies (play by Mitra Phukan) — Critical Reflection

D. in a dilemma.

A dilemma is a situation in which a person is pulled between two courses, both of which matter. The extract shows exactly that pull, in consecutive sentences:

By ‘the right way’ Shruti means a way of telling her father about the fusion concert that will not make him feel his art and his opinions are being rejected — the words, the tone and the moment that would let her ask for something new without it sounding like disrespect.

The extract itself defines the danger she is trying to avoid. She says he “will think it a desecration of the violin to be played to Western tunes”. Desecration is a word for spoiling something sacred; so any careless announcement will land on him as an insult to his life’s work. She also says, “I don’t want papa to feel that I don’t care about his opinions.” Put the two together and ‘the right way’ becomes clear: a way that says ‘I want to add this’ and not ‘I am leaving what you taught me’.

Completed sentence: We can say that the extract reflects the generational gap in understanding art and tradition because the father judges by a single, closed standard — Shruti reports that he “firmly believes that Classical Hindustani music, with its ragas and aalaaps, is the only kind of music that an artist of any worth should play” — while Shruti, of the younger generation, sees fusion as one more use of the same trained hands and simply wants “to give this a try too”.

Iqbal says, “All ways are right ways, Shruti. He is your father, he will understand.” Both halves are designed to remove a fear, and they work on different fears.

• “All ways are right ways” answers the exact problem she has just stated. She is frozen because she is hunting for a perfect method of telling him. Iqbal denies that a wrong method exists — which means she cannot fail at the part she is afraid of. It takes the burden off how she speaks and leaves only the fact that she must speak.
• “He is your father, he will understand” answers the fear of the outcome. It moves the ground from music, where Nabin is a strict authority, to the relationship, where he is simply a parent. Iqbal is reminding her that she is not approaching a Principal of a music school; she is approaching her father.

of any worth.

B. traditional values and modern expressions.

The two banks that Nabin’s sentence joins are named inside it. “Our own music” is the tradition — Hindustani classical, the ragas and aalaaps he has taught all his life. The thing he had feared was Shruti being “lost to us” in a modern form, Indo-Western fusion. When he says his fears were baseless, he is saying the modern expression does not cost him the traditional value; the two can stand together. “Each bay, its own wind” then extends it into a principle — every artist may find a different direction and still belong to the same sea.

…in the sense of losing her musical roots (her classical training and identity as a classical musician) and physical separation.

duty.

The other four are all carried by the hug. It comes immediately after a quarrel has been settled, so it shows reconciliation; it ends a scene of conflict between two kinds of music, so it shows harmony; her father has just said “I trust you Shruti”, so it shows acceptance; and his admission “I realise that my fears were baseless” is exactly understanding.

The inference is that Shruti will now be able to work in both traditions openly, and that the split which shaped the whole play has simply stopped existing for her.

Three things in Act III support it:

• She keeps her classical foundation. Her father’s praise is technical, not sentimental: “You did not lose sight of the notes of the raga even once and performed it to excellence.” He has certified that fusion has not damaged her training — so there is no reason for her to choose.
• She gains resources instead of losing them. “I was planning to offer the children the music room… You’ll have more equipment there and will be able to practise regularly.” The Principal of Sangeetika Music School is now backing the group; a hidden after-school practice becomes a properly equipped one.
• She no longer has to hide. “I will root for your group at the concert!” and her own promise — “I will always take my art seriously no matter what I do” — mean her energy goes into the music rather than into concealment.

“Each bay, its own wind.”

The title is exact, because the play is built on pairs that are not rivals. ‘Twin’ says the two melodies are born together and belong together; they are not an original and a copy.

The title works on at least four levels:

• Two kinds of music. Hindustani classical, with its “ragas and aalaaps”, and Indo-Western fusion — flute, tabla, keyboard and violin in one piece. By the end they are not two rival musics but one performance: Nabin himself certifies that the raga survived intact inside the fusion piece.
• Two generations. Nabin, who defied a family of vocalists to take up the violin, and Shruti, who defies a violinist to take up fusion. Their stories are twins — the same rebellion, one generation apart. That is why Leela can end the conflict simply by narrating the first one.
• Two voices inside Shruti. Her aside — “Perhaps I can practise one last time and soon after that I will tell them that I can’t join them” — is the sound of duty and desire running side by side in the same girl.
• Two ways of being right. Nabin’s discipline (“Work on your art and everything will follow”) and Shruti’s curiosity are both defensible. The play refuses to cancel either.

All three friends push Shruti in the same direction, but each gives a different reason — and the reason is the character.

Nabin Sharma is a serious artist and a serious teacher whose strictness comes from reverence, not from vanity — and the play’s work is to show him that his reverence had turned into fear.

What he is like at the start. His authority is quiet. He does not shout; the stage direction says he speaks “calmly but firmly”, and “No is the answer” arrives before Shruti has finished her sentence. His standards are stated as principles, not preferences: “one performance in every six months. More than that, familiarity breeds contempt. Work on your art and everything will follow.” Even his objection to a group performance is artistic — “To drown your individual style in the hubbub of an orchestra is hardly a wise choice.” His vocabulary (desecration, musicality, iterated) is that of a man who has thought about these questions for decades.

Where he goes wrong. He judges a category he has not heard. His cruellest line — “Sure, there’ll be a practice, for ‘phoo’ music when making noise starts needing practice” — is sarcasm about music he has never listened to, and the stage direction marks it: “with a slight mocking tone”. He also shuts the conversation instead of holding it: “I think there remains nothing for me to say now.” Underneath is not snobbery but a father’s fear, which he confesses only later: “I was afraid you would be lost to us.”

How he changes. The change is staged in three steps, and only the last is verbal:

What he becomes. Generous in practical ways — he offers the children the music room and its equipment — and honest about himself: “I underestimated the power of our own music… I realise that my fears were baseless… I had forgotten my own past.” He even refuses the credit: “It was Leela who opened my eyes… It is your mother you should thank.”

Shruti’s conflict is placed at the centre of every Act, and the playwright keeps it internal — she never once argues that her father is wrong.

Act I — the conflict is named. Both sides are in a single speech: “I don’t want papa to feel that I don’t care about his opinions, because I do. It’s just that I want to give this a try too.” That sentence is the whole theme. The word too shows she is not choosing between duty and passion; she is trying to hold both, which is what makes the situation painful rather than simple. Her guilt shows physically as well — “Shruti wears a look of distress on her face” while the boys are celebrating her newspaper review.

Act II — duty wins, and costs her. She asks permission instead of going ahead, and when refused she does not defy him. Notice what she regrets afterwards: “I know. I should have asked him.” She blames herself even in her own defeat. Her only complaint is for others — “If he doesn’t let me participate, our group won’t be able to perform. All our practice will go down the drain.”

Act III — the private cost is spoken aloud. Her aside is the play’s most honest line: “(Aside) Oh, how much I enjoy performing this piece. Perhaps I can practise one last time and soon after that I will tell them that I can’t join them for the performance.” Passion and duty are in the same breath — the enjoyment and the surrender.

The conclusion is effective, and largely realistic — but its realism depends on one condition the play is careful to supply: Nabin’s own hidden history. Take the case both ways before deciding.

What makes it convincing:

• The change is caused, not announced. Nabin does not simply soften; he is made to listen, and his conversion happens in his feet before it happens in his mouth — “taps his feet and is seen evidently enjoying”. A change we watch is more believable than one we are told about.
• It has a prepared cause. Leela’s revelation that Nabin defied his own family of vocalists is not invented at the last moment for convenience; it explains everything he has said. His admission “I had forgotten my own past” makes the reversal psychologically exact rather than lucky.
• The praise he gives is professional, and therefore in character. He does not say ‘I was harsh’; he says the raga was not lost. A strict teacher yields on evidence, and evidence is what he is given.
• He gives credit away — “It is your mother you should thank” — and offers something concrete, the music room. Support that costs him something is more credible than support that costs nothing.

Where it is convenient: the reversal is quick, and it all happens in one rehearsal. A man who called the group’s work “ ‘phoo’ music” hours earlier is applauding it by the end of the same short Act; a real change of taste usually takes longer and needs more than one hearing. The mother’s persuasion, the hardest work in the play, happens off stage, so we never see the resistance she had to overcome. And Shruti is never made to pay for the concealment — Leela’s scolding is the only consequence.

Cultural diversity in Twin Melodies is not decoration — it is the machinery of the plot, and it works at three levels.

1. In the group itself. The four children are Shruti, Avinash, Iqbal and Peter — names from different communities of India — and their instruments come from different worlds: flute and tabla from the Indian tradition, keyboard from the Western, violin standing in both. Nothing in the play remarks on their names, and that silence is the point: the mixture is treated as ordinary. It is the adults, not the children, who see a boundary at all.

2. In the music. The play opens on “a beautiful Indo-Western fusion music piece in its crescendo” — diversity is the first thing the audience hears, before a word is spoken. And the conflict is a genuine cultural argument, not a misunderstanding: Nabin’s belief that Hindustani classical is “the only kind of music that an artist of any worth should play” is a real position, held by real musicians, and the play gives it his own dignified vocabulary rather than a caricature.

3. Inside the tradition itself. This is the subtlest use. Leela reveals that the violin “had not yet been incorporated into classical Indian music” when Nabin took it up — so the instrument he now defends as sacred was itself once a foreign import absorbed into the Indian system. Diversity is shown to be how a tradition has always grown, not a threat arriving from outside it.