31st January, 2015
“We’ll go to Prague one day!” Devi remarked, slumping back
into the armchair near the window, lighting a Dunhill cigarette from the new
pack. Playing a pizzicato note on his Stradivarius, Rudra looks up
questioningly. He always refrained from talking when his fingers moved over the
strings and the bow swayed over, composing something new or just reciting a
chord from Brahms or Mozart or Beethoven for that matter, so he kept looking at
her for an answer. The winter afternoon of 2015 had a bright sun that day,
which lit the apartment in warm light, basking everything around it. Tapping some
ash out of the window, Devi went on, “Prague! Now that’s a city to be in, you
know! People are always speaking about Paris or Italy, but Prague is somewhere
one shall find actual romance…” Devi kept
looking out of the window, while Rudra continued playing his violin. Apartments
in Delhi have one advantage of people not disturbing each other. Once a door is
closed, no one even bothers to find out what is going on in the very next door.
It doesn’t matter if one is getting killed;
well frankly because no one knows and none cares.
Being slightly a
dissocial person, suffering from somewhat social awkwardness, Rudra always had
found it very much soothing, to be left alone, he got nervous when bothered, at
times he became rude and clumsy, movements conversations went out of the window
if he was asked something in public, but when he looked up at Devi, everything
went from bleak to blinding bright. Even now when she sat on his armchair by
the window, bathing in the winter sun while he fiddled, he could not help but
wonder on his fate. A feminine silhouette which sat in front of him, surrounded
by such light, as a streak of swirling smoke raised from the dangling cigarette
between her fingers, no one else was as fortunate as him right then, and his
state of mind reflected on his violin. Devi wasn’t unaware of his heart’s
condition too, her head swayed along with the mysterious melody, like a maple
leaf in a springtime wind, the lipstick stained cigarette end still dangling
on. Devi never knew what he played on his violin, she never even asked. Sometimes,
it is much better not to know something, and rather just savor its existence. Sometimes,
the questions are much beautiful than the answer, as an answer may spoil its subtle
enigma.
“Will you come to Prague... only the two of us?” Devi
exclaimed, as if it was really not a matter of joke but a serious issue! “We’ll rent a car; drive around the city, a
blue Cadillac will be so fun! Will you come with me to Prague?” she asked like
a child asking for a new bicycle… keeping his focus right on what he played, Rudra
looked at her and smiled, said nothing, and he needn’t to say! All he did, and
all Devi cared about right then was his violin and the music that was smearing
that winter afternoon with a angelic hue, the colors were the sound, the brush
were the strings and the painters were two people in an apartment, who were in
a relation of soul. "I love you, Rudra..." Devi whispered. His fingers stooped on the strings. Breaking his focus, Rudra replied... "I love you too, Devi."
“Rudy! Rudy! C’mon man, wake up, its Showtime! You’re up in
5 minutes!” said a booming voice! Opening
his eyes, he found himself on a chair in front of a dressing mirror. In front
of him stood another man, much older than him, peering on his face, shaking his
shoulders gently. “Wake up sonny, the show’s about to start!”
Running his fingers through his thick mullet hairs, Rudra stood
up, picking his Stradivarius. “Singh ji!” he looked confused for a moment! “Where…
where are we again?” Rudra queried, looking around, he tried to ascertain his
whereabouts. If any random person had entered the room then, he’d have surely mistaken
Rudra for some odd guy at a very odd place. The 5 o’clock beard, the unkempt
hair, was entirely in contrast to his Harris Tweed attire. None would’ve
believed that this man was one of the most prodigious names in music, a violin maestro
who had the talent that had him share stages with people like De Hass, or Ravi
Shankar and Anushka Shankar, given his rather odd dress and looks. “Where are
we?” he asked again, lighting a Dunhill. “Why at the Narodni Divadlo of course! Don’t you remember?” Singh asked. As his
manager, Singh had spent almost 15 years with him and is perfectly aware of Rudra’s
antics. Always lost in his own world, creating masterpieces from that little
wooden instrument. “Oh, yes of course,
Prague, isn’t it?” coming back to this world, Rudra asked, with a sardonic
smile. “Yes it is, and you better suit up! And gimme that shit you’re smoking”
Singh replied, snatching the cigarette out of rudra’s hands and throwing it in
the waste bin, “how many times are we going to go over your smoking habit
before your performance? Now get up there and make magic!” Singh said. Rudra
laughed and stepped out for the stage.
2032, Prague… the National Theater or the Narodni Divadlo,
which is a dream theatre for artists and only the people with magic are able to
perform here, was swarming full with people. Rudra’s social awkwardness had
long gone, but his heart fluttered today with all anticipations. Filled with
music lovers, critics and journalists, the theatre was going to be a dream
world, and he, he was going to the ruler of his world. At times, Rudra thought himself
as the pied piper, only with a violin instead of a pipe and humans replacing the
populace of mouse and rats, though never in a degraded sense. All he ever
wanted was to create a bit of magic and taking the people around him to a land
of stories and dreams and memories, in which he was the best, or so the world
said. Prague wasn’t meant to be much different only if…
The spotlight was on his persona as he took the centre
stage. Thunderous claps rallied from the last to the first, from the balcony to
the down, followed by a complete silence. Rudra waited a moment. If someone was an
attentive and observant audience, he or she would have known that Rudra wasn’t just
standing still; his eyes were jumping from face to face, searching amongst a
faceless crowd.
It was a monsoon of 2021 when a letter arrived to rudra’s
address. The paper eerily seemed familiar and an unmistakable jasmine scent was
not hard to miss. Reading it once, twice, a hundred times, he couldn’t figure out
what was the reason, and finally, dejected, the letter was stapled with a music
sheet that was being composed that morning.
Pulling out a piece of paper out of his breast pocket, Rudra
was still standing. The audience wasn’t totally unaware of the behaviors of
this musical genius, owing a gratitude to the newspapers and critic reviews;
they felt their heart beats when he struck the first chord on his violin. What followed
was a journey to a land of pure musical magic, a new, raw, unheard melody. The chills
that went down the spine of those who worshipped music was indeed a treat, but Rudra
wasn’t inclined to that.
The letter had a simple content… “I am leaving…try and
forget me. All the love… Devi!” Every other attempt to contact had failed. Rudra
had no answer to any of his questions. All he was left with was a hope and an
unfinished symphony that he intended to play for her. Endless mails and
messages were sent that were not replied. Calls died after ten rings. Though there
were some news that popped up every now and then, Rudra lost something that wasn’t
going to be back.
The performance ended well, as it is expected. The theater
might have come crumbling down if claps had such power. Applause and buzzing “brava!’’
were the other sounds. Rudra’s eyes were still scanning the crowd, searching
for something, or rather someone. Along with the music sheet on the stand,
there was another piece of paper, both as old and yellow, with some faded ink
and maybe a jasmine scent. “I am in Prague… where are you?” a whisper escaped
his breath, unheard by the euphoric audience… “Please… where are you?” another
whisper. People in the first row might had noticed a trickle in the corner of
his eyes and must had mistaken it as the tears of joy… mark of a artist!... “WHERE
ARE YOU DAMMIT?” a loud, shocking wail that silenced the whole theater… the strings
resembled to springs out of a broken toy, splinters of wood lay around… an
expression of disbelief was stuck on everyone’s face as they saw the magician
of music on his knees, shivering in pain and agony.
Someone in the first row picked up a paper of some musical
notes…an unfinished symphony called “Devi’s Song” with a stapled letter.
END
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