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 of the house, Mohan, got down from it. Mohan had grown up in this house with the pianist’s father- Chote Sahib, and has been the most loyal servant of the house. After the demise of Chote Sahib, he had taken care of the house for six years and had been waiting for the last living heir to return and claim what was rightfully his. After all these years he had finally received a call from our pianist, and was thrilled to hear from that little boy who had left home thirty-two years back. On seeing him after so many years, Mohan couldn’t recognise him at first, but when he stared into those familiar hazel eyes, he saw the little chirpy boy again, who was now a man of wealth and wisdom. He helped him to unlock the gate, and accompanied him through the pathway built across the garden around the house, to the main door, and into the main hallway just after entering the mansion. Electric lights were put on, and the pianist was left all alone, to absorb as much nostalgia as he wished to.

Everything was so familiar to him, yet every single object seemed so unknown. The courtyard where he played with his cousins now looked like a ghost in this lifeless mansion. The chandelier, glowing on the top ceiling, reminded him of those Durga Pujas, where it was a definite attraction to every single guest. The beautiful Andarmahal reminded him how his mother, with his aunts, used to chat there at the sunset hour, and how their laughter echoed through every corner of the house, filling it with joy and making it a home worth living in.

Then his eyes caught the Piano. Its glistening body made of mahogany, its everlasting ambience, seemed to drag him towards it. His fingers caressed its smooth, expensive body. His eyes seem to dig deep into it. If the pianist were asked to recall his very first memory since birth, it would be to watch his father play the piano; and some times when his father got too lost in music, little pianist would sit on the floor next to him, cross-legged, and watch his fingers play with the black and white keys. This long-lost father used to worship her, which (as it seemed to the pianist) had raised her worth. He sat down on the piano stool, and started playing his father’s favourite sonata.

As his fingers played the notes, his mind drifted off. All the memories, good and bad, moved around his mind. Oh! How everyone in the house stopped their work to hear father play this song! How his beautiful mother used to dance to its melody and embrace her youth all over again! All those days with his family, all those days of togetherness seemed like a dream woken up from. In this world of trial and treason, those seventeen years of his life seemed too good to be true. A part of him felt happy, remembering those times, and a part of him broke down, realising that those days would never come back.

Amongst his thoughts, the great, nearest to perfect pianist, missed a note. He stopped playing, his mind seemed to be slapped back to reality. He could not stay there for long; it was getting dark, he had to return. He had a long way to go, he could not hold on to old sweet memories any longer. As he looked around he saw: all around him was antique, an extremely profitable exchange. His reality dawned upon him, which told him to return back to his lifestyle, while the deafening silence of the Piano held him to the stool, to the memories he wished to live with forever.