The Deafening Silence
Central Avenue, Kolkata. The sky was a misty shade of maroon that late evening. The car screeched at a halt in front of the rusted iron gate of Chowdhury Mansion. The glazing black door of his Lamborghini opened, and his feet tapped across the old macadamised road dry with loneliness, while heavy with memories. The extravagant pianist, pulling open his white gloves, touched the rusted iron lock of the locked mansion gates tenderly. It seemed to safely lock up the old memories of his family inside the premises. His attentive eyes observed the old mansion corner to corner. He was born and brought up in this very house, his ancestral home. At the young age of seventeen, leaving his huge family behind, he had to move abroad for higher education, and instead, following his passion and after a lot of hard work, moral and financial support, struggle and practice, this young boy had become one of the greatest pianists of India. The “tring”-ing of a cycle was heard nearby, and the old caretaker...