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Jayaraj stood up.

“Jayaraj etta! The sangeetha cheppu is about to start!” yelled the bride’s uncle, a man with a mustache that looked like a crow in flight. malayalamsax

The violinist lowered his bow. The young keyboardist’s hands froze above the keys. Jayaraj stood up

He was sixty-three, with the kind of face that looked like a crumpled newspaper left in the rain. In his lap, cradled like a sick child, was a battered Selmer alto saxophone. The lacquer was worn off where his thumbs rested, and the bell had a small dent from a drunken argument in a Dubai hotel room twenty years ago. cradled like a sick child