It lied there,
in the corner under the stair for many days now, unattended, unused and
smothered with a thin layer of dust.
Every time he
treaded the stairs, he would give it a passing glance, laden with guilt and
regret. Today, he decided that he would do a bit more. After dinner, he sneaked
under the stairway, and carefully tip-toeing amidst the strewn happy meal toys
and footwear he reached up to the case. He covered his nose, patted the handle
with his son’s Superman costume cape and blew out a few specs of dust, pulled
out the case and stealthily carried it to his bedroom.
Once in the
bedroom, he placed the case softly on the cot, sat next to it and looked down
at it. ‘What should I do next? Should I open it or should I not?’ he
thought for a while, and then slowly placed his hand on the case, feeling it,
like a young man feels and caresses the contours of his asleep nubile lover,
careful not to wake her up. With pouted lips and trembling hands, he unzipped
her case. His eyes smiled and his lips glistened as he pulled her out, a Yamaha
F130 Guitar.
An Indonesian
beauty she was, crafted with a mix of Meranti, Rosewood and Nato, a real treat
for a rock lover’s soul. He carefully lifted
her by the neck and placed her on his lap.
Now, close
your eyes and imagine a late romantic evening. You are in one of those outdoor
Mediterranean restaurants by the sea, and on your lap, you have the woman of
your dreams, with her back resting on your left hand, her eyes prying into yours,
trying to find her answers. All you can hear is your breath, everything else around
is still, even the sea and the wind has stopped, and as your mouths gets moist,
the only thing that moves is your right hand, it flows down caressingly. Your fingers
trace the contours of her waist, smooth and silky, like she has been buttered
with B&WB’s Moonlight Path. You close your eyes, just to break free of the
questions that her eyes are throwing at you. ‘Where were you all these
days?’, ‘Do you really love me?’, ‘Are you going to dump me away again after
you are done with me tonight?’ Your hand moves further up, on to her bare
abdomen, and as your thumb runs over her navel, she cringes. Yes, just like
that.
He plucks the
strings and the strings let out a sound. The sound is melodious; as melodious
as it can be, but he does not like it. It does not sound like how it does when his
God, Mark Knopfler does it. He plucks again, this time again with the same
result. After a few tries he goes back to the basics, just like how his Guruji
at the Kalashetra taught him, G-A-B-C-D-E-F-G chanting in his mind and the
strings go ‘Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa-Dha-Ni-Sa’. He likes it, and as he does that, a gush
of blood inundates his heart; he can feel it swelling, smiling and asking for
more.
He draws himself
to the back, makes a comfy backrest stretches his legs on to the bed and keeps
playing. As he practices his basic guitar lessons from Good to Go to Mary
had a little lamb to Jovian Sky, things happen in the bedroom that
he is oblivious about. His kids run in, have a bout on who should kiss him goodnight
first, break into a ruckus, and after mediation and two raps each from their
mother, kiss him goodnight and run out just like how they came in. A few
moments later, his wife, who had just put the kids to sleep in the adjacent
room, walks in. She starts with her bedtime rigmarole of daubing and powdering.
She lets her hair loose. Starts with admiring her curly tresses in the mirror,
and almost faints at the sight of his dry and chapped feet. She reprimands him
for not taking care of his body, anoints his feet with a thick coat of cocoa
butter cream, dims the bedroom light, changes into her sleepwear, reads a few
whatsapp jokes on her smartphone, laughs, giggles, talks to herself and then
falls asleep. His foot feels good and cozy, so does his heart. His body relaxes,
slowly the eyes shut, and he falls asleep with the guitar in his arms just next
to his wife who is already snoozing, listening to his renditions.
By now, his
wife probably was dreaming of Mary and her little lamb or maybe she was dreaming
about having Mutton Mandi from her favourite Afghan Brothers Restaurant, but he
was not.
He had
already switched on to the Mark Knopfler – Unplugged channel on the Jukebox in
his Dream Train. He moved from Marbletown to Romeo and Juliet to Get
Lucky to Layla and many more, and many many more acoustic jugalbandis
done jointly with other great God’s of Rock music. It was an amazing night,
which started with a gig on a moonlit beach, and as the night grew bolder his God
plugged in a red guitar called in his long lost buddies and started rocking,
and then with every song that was played he grew younger. Money for Nothing,
Sultans of Swing, Walk of Life, Brothers in Arms, Private Investigations ….psychedelic
he roamed backwards through those streets you call past life, he saw people.
People who were sometime close to him, someone who was a dear friend, someone
who was a best friend, someone who was a lover, someone who was considered
unimaginable to part away from, but all who are not part of his life now. All,
who are not part of his 550+ friends on Facebook, but stored safely in that
special part of his life called memories, people whom he had not met for years, people whom he
had met but, not like old times. People whom he would love to take back to his past,
but maybe not in his future. People change, he said, he had changed, he knew.
The song changed, and it finally ended it with Going Home.
He woke up
with a tear in the eye. His wife had already packed the guitar back and kept it
safely next to the side table. Today he had woken up unusually early, but he
was not sleep deprived, he was fresh. He played an imaginary acoustic guitar as
he sat on the potty seat, shook some booty while brushing teeth, banged his
head in the shower, got ready for work and ran down the stairs singing ‘We
gotta move these refrigerator, we gotta move these color TVeeeees…moova …. moova
…..’. His wife, who was watching Food Channel on TV jumped up saying ‘What?
You want to change the whole layout of this room? Are you okay? Did you sleep
well sweetie?’ He just smiled,
grabbed his smoothie flask held his wife by her waist, planted a kiss on lips, and
said ‘I rocked baby, yesterday night I rocked’ and left.
He sat in his
car, put on his sunglasses, turned the key on and turned his head to the porch, he saw
his wife standing at the door, smiling and dazed, with questions in her eyes.
That is when he knew he had to write this blog.
