II Hari om II
The Pianist
He stood there staring at the old piano. It lay there, covered in dust; as though unloved. A year’s worth of dust.
That old piano was his soul. But he hadn’t had the heart to even look at it. He hadn’t even entered that room.
The past was too painful. Every now and then, something would occur to trigger off those memories. He would crumple in a moment, remembering how hollow he was.
How hollow he was without ‘her’.
There it was! That fatal connection. He should never have entered the room! Never! Every speck of dust, every crack and crevice breathed her name! The memories came crashing down on him and he could resist no more.
He let himself drown, and the current swept him away…
That first day he had met her. How strange it had all been. He a fledgling piano tutor, just barley out of his nest. And his first ‘apprentice’: a young lady, barely a couple of years younger than he!
They had started the lessons fairly normally. But from the very first, it was apparent to both of them that there was more to it. They were like two parts of a song, treble and bass, music and lyrics, each so distinct, so different, and still complete only together.
At first she was hesitant and shy, both in manner and in her playing.
That first time, she had blushed and shyly tried to show off her self-learned prowess.
A few broken notes rose from the old piano. And he grinned. A subtle, playful grin she would come to know well. “What’re you playing kid?”, he asked. “Mary had a little lamb”, she said, barely speaking.
“Well, may your lamb run in rhythm next time young lady! “, he winked.
They shared a laugh. That first laugh. The ice was broken, and irreparably so.
He soon realised that she had prodigious talent. In months, she had practised so hard that it became difficult for the listeners to differentiate student from teacher.
Indeed, he played purely on instinct, not much inclined to practice. Soon, she became technically superior to her ‘Sir’ and the roles of their little game were reversed!
“What was that last note you played ‘Sir’, she asked playfully, poking him in the ribs, “Sounded way off the scale. I think someone could do with a bit of training eh!”
He turned and looked at her smiling face, mesmerised. His mind had been on her, not on the scales after all.
The image shattered.
He was on his knees in front of the old piano. He was shivering. His vision blurred.
He was with her again.
The best of times. They were truly complementary. He, with his artistic flair; all ”feel”, ”instinct” and “composition”; and she with her meticulous attention to detail, harsh criticisms & detached, frank corrections. But he was still the teacher. And he was competitive at heart.
It became a game between them: He used to leave his compositions incomplete, missing a few of the last bars.
And she had to complete the song! It was his way of teaching her to feel.
And often, other, stranger, unexpressed feelings found an expression in those moments of music.
She had succeeded every time; struggling a bit, but getting there in the end.
Except that last time. That last song left incomplete.
With tears in his eyes, he flipped through the pages of her notebook.
That last blank page stared at him. A page she would never fill. For she existed only in his memories now.
And the only place they could meet was in the music.
He sat at the piano. Restless. He had to complete the song. But he hesitated, as he had before. Perhaps he knew that completing the song would mean letting go of her for good.
It was that single unfulfilled promise that bound them together, still. Across time and space.
But he knew had to complete it today.
With trembling hands, the Pianist started to play…
She woke with a start. It seemed so real. It seemed like her dear ‘Sir’ was calling her.
She looked at the clock, then at the calendar. The cruel truth!
Exactly a year since his passing.
She could still see his smiling face as he walked out through the door that last time, never to return.
The same smile now frozen in a single picture on her mantlepiece.
But something was different that day. She felt him there.
Suddenly, the music she had tried so hard to forget came flooding back!
But not with grief, with joy and hope. It was as though he was composing for her again.
And the old piano called out to her from beneath its layer of dust.
… Her notebook open to that final blank page.
She had tried a couple of times, failed and then stopped altogether.
For who was she to play for, if not for him. What was the point of completing the song, for he would never hear her playing it!
But that was her folly. She knew that now. He WAS here.
The piano, that silent witness to their bond, their love, their resonance.
That piano vibrated with his energy, with their energy.
And she closed her eyes and started to play. Purely on instinct.
She could almost hear him whisper words of encouragement.
Without even realising it, she completed the song. Of course she could!
For he was her and she was him.
True, they would never meet again. Never speak, nor laugh, nor fight, as so often they had before. But there was no need for that.
Here, at the piano, in their music, the Pianist and his love were one.
They were inseparable.
He smiled.
She smiled.
She looked at that last blank page a final time.
She closed the book. Best leave some things incomplete.
She laid a fresh rose before his smiling face, took a bit of his smile into her soul & stepped out to meet the world again.
|| Shri Ram || || Ambadnya || || I Love You my Dad ||
-Arnav H. Tongaonkar
17.04.2016
