Broken Guitar Strings

It was after five long years that he was visiting his grandpa’s place. A place which was his yearly pilgrimage while he grew up as kid. A place which came as an antidote to studies, for these were those days no one bothered to ask about how many chapters remained or what homework was given. His father job, would require them to move from one place to another, so, this was where he felt home, a sense of security.

As he moved through the mango orchards, in the aroma of unripe mangoes, a vivid memory of his grandpa floated to him. Every evening, with all his grand kids around, Sudarshan or as he was better called, Suda would play a tune in his harmonium. Some eager little ones would join him. Anshul would always be the first one. His favourite was the sitar, for he loved strings. However, his parents never approved of his eagerness. His father, Suda’s eldest son, believed, music was a curse on their family. An identity that would reek from his surname. All his life he had to labour the way out of this musical tradition. And on this thought, which was amongst of the few, his younger brother always agreed.

But young Anshul had found a attraction to the art. Some of his cousins were too, but none would dare to fight the disapproving look from their angry dads. So, most of the time it was his grandpa alone, and sometimes the only two of them. At the end of the tune, Anshul would often find a drop of tear in his Baba’s eyes. But there would not be any emotions of Baba's face. Just a tear. A tear he would then swiftly wipe. A tear he paid as homage to his dying art. Or maybe he was overwhelmed, to see music again in the hands of his own blood.

Over the years, things began to change. His visit became irregular, his father and uncle would seemingly agree on lesser and lesser grounds, his grandfather’s music was waning and his grandmother was dying. The music also changed its course. It seemed as if music was slowly transiting itself from his grandfather to him. His hand would get steadier as his grandfather would shiver.

One day at the end of the prayer, his grandfather called him and asked. “It is your sixtenth birthday next year. What do you want?” Anshul looked up with awe. Today Suda’s eyes were filled with more tears than ever, as if he was losing something dear.

“Maybe, A guitar” whispered Anshul as he left the place.

All through the year he could think of nothing but the gift. Was it too much to ask? He knew his grandfather would have no money, why did he ask for it? He wished he could go back and say no.

When the vacations time came, things were not so bright. His grandmother’s health had deteriorated, and that was the only thing that now held the relationship between the brothers. As if both were just somehow held back, by an unwoven string which would snap with their mother’s death. His grandfather remained speechless, a mute spectator to his breaking family. Anshul rushed to his Grandpa, the burden of the gift had made him restless. With a soft cheer Suda Baba greeted him. And then, slyly escorted him to the music room. There was no harmonium, no sitar or cymbals. 'Only a glimmering Guitar'. Not of the best built, but surely wrapped with utmost care. For a moment or two, Anshul could not hold his feet on the ground. He hugged his Baba hard. Dashed to the guitar, pulled the strings. Oops, he could not play the guitar as he did the sitar. But he continued. Only then, he remembered of the missing sitar. “Where are the others? Where is my sitar, Baba?”

“Oh it broke.” Sudarshan gave an insincere remark, hiding away his tears.

For the whole summer guitar was the center of the discussions, both of the cousins and of their parents. Sometimes things were mellifluous, sometimes bitter. And before the vacation could end, it was snapped by his grandmother’s demise.

Now that he had moved into high school, vacations turned into tuition time. Their pilgrimage would be of a single day, the remembrance of their grandmother. But that would also be the day, he would tighten his strings and ace up his best for his grandfather. And his grandfather would always reward him with a single tear. But gradually, the old man Suda, lost his voice to cancer, and was clear that he would not live long. His son, who had been distanced, now fought over the burden of their ailing father. Even in a day’s visit, they would find chances of hurling chides of disapproval. Surely Suda’s family had lost its music.

It was in winter, the news of the news of their grandfather’s death came. Just months before Anshul would move to college. For months now he had no practice of guitar. His parents hated his passion. Every single mark was equated to his guitar hours. Guitar had become a burden, he began to realise the tears of his grandfather. So, he decided to put back the guitar in the music room, to where it belonged. In the funeral there was a silence, a hidden coldness between the brothers. A weird competition between their wives, as if some would rank the best daughter-in-law. But in the darkness of the night, the broken bonds revealed. A fight over the food, escalated to a slap, and then things went foul. It was from that day Anshul had never got the chance to look back. He met his uncle on occasions, and a few times in the court. He moved into college, completed his studies to land in a job that paid him good.

Yesterday, he got a call from his father. Their grandfathers will, had been approved by the court. But it was on his name and of his cousins. The house had been renovated, it reflected the sun rays to the rod. And was, accompanied by an attorney, his uncle, his cousins. The business was quickly done, with few signatures and papers, his father wound up his ties with the place. He long disliked the nature. One has to labour to move out of it he always said.

“Why don’t you come in, Anshul?” his aunt asked in a sarcastic tone, knowing that he had no more right over his grandfather’s place. His uncle had a veiled smile.

He did not want to go, but it seemed as if his grandfather was pulling him in. He walked, with heavy breath, a known unfamiliarity, till he reached for the prayer room. Just beside his grandfather’s photo was his guitar, dusty and faded, like the sitar he used to play.

“Can I take this?” he asked as he looked at his Aunt.

“Yes, you can.” His father replied in a firm voice. The lawyer had a confused glance of the will.

“Its all yours, do as you wish.” his Uncle replied from the door.

With that he bundled all his memories, and moved out of this place. The last piece known to him was now in his hands.

#

For the last 50 years, Anshul’s yearly pilgrimage has been a old bank locker. No one knew what he hid there, for every year one single day, he would wake up and start this journey (which grew arduous with age) to the locker. We all grandkids would speculate what would be hidden there? I too had a passion for music, for me it’s the tabla. And every time I would play, Anshul Baba would have a tear in his eyes. When I turned sixteen a week ago, Baba called me to his study; and said. “Do you know what I have in the locker?”

“Some rare diamonds” I joked.

“Well, here is the key. Go find out” His response filled in an aura of tensed emotion.

So, I accompanied my father to my first visit to the bank. The locker had a guitar with broken strings, a diary. The pages had turned yellow. And dried tears had formed impression on most pages. I left the guitar, for this had been the prayer room of my grandfather. The diary was my companion for the drive back home.

As I reached my place, my grandfather had been asleep. I gently placed the diary and moved out. The last entry was on the day Suda Baba passed away. The lines read “Music of the Suda family has to live on.” It was the first time I felt that music can run in our blood. I could not help but wonder,

What would my pilgrimage be?

What would I do when my grandson hits sixteen?

Music became a responsibility from a passion. Cold sweats drenched my wrinkled forehead.