FAMILY STORY

                                  "GRANDMA'S VIOLIN"

Indian summers are bearable with a grimace in the best of days, intolerable when the sun decides to exhibit its full glory. Although if one wakes up early enough, a feeling of illusory coolness could be experienced before the dreaded ball of fire rises up high in the sky.

Neena was an early riser, the fact which her mother loved to show-off in front of Mrs. Gupta during social events—whose daughter never rose before ten a.m. in the holidays. But you couldn’t say that the black-eyed black-haired petite fourteen-year-old girl had an interest in proving the utility of a certain old adage.

Early to bed or not, early to rise was more of a necessity in her case. Not that she had any other choice.

Neena Roy lived on the eighth floor of the fifteen storied Kanishka Apartments in suburban Ranikunj, a small, sleepy but peaceful “town on the verge of being a city”. Her parents were dentists and ran a small but renowned clinic two streets away. Citizens of Ranikunj preferred their dental affairs to be dealt by the Roys as they had the reputation of being the nicest and honest dentists around. But this ensured that Neena was left mostly on her own during daytime—it wasn’t much of an issue during school days but the summer break left her the sole member in the house. She often wished to roll about lazily over her bed with the AC whirring quietly—a dream that shattered pretty abruptly.

It was Subhashini Ganguly on the sixth floor who acted as her unwanted alarm clock. Affectionately called “Grandma” by the other kids of the building, she became an octogenarian three years back but was as lively as ever. Her thick snow-white hair, now cut into a bob, was meticulously shampooed every second day by the maid who also did the other household chores. Always clad in a cream sari, her crinkly brown eyes gleamed with childish mischief when she secretly gifted Neena home-made toffees and other sweetmeats despite her parents’ protests.

It was a pain in the neck to have dentists as parents…

Grandma had an interesting theory about wrinkles—the number of wrinkles on one’s face testified the age. Which made Neena point out the fact that even though she was fourteen, her face was devoid of them. Whenever she debated on this issue, the older lady would just give her a mysterious smile and deftly change the topic.

Grandma used to play the violin in the wee hours of the morning every summer and at dusk in the winters. Neena wouldn’t have complained if her day began with a soothing Bach. But the crackling groaning groan of the poor instrument that emanated from the sixth floor was enough to make her ears rebel in utter despair.

Thus explained the reason of the “early riser” activity which made her mother proud.

As a matter of fact, Neena loved the rich sound of the violin and especially hung back to hear the senior music class practice in school. But she couldn’t fathom as to why two decades of practice couldn’t yield a beautiful note from Grandma’s violin.

Neena liked to laze around in Grandma’s apartment when school was off—either munching away “forbidden” sweetmeats or listening to the old lady’s stories. She often narrated tales of her grandson who served in the Indian Army—a fact she was immensely proud of. Grandfather, who had died two decades ago, was a freedom fighter and she had helped him in every way she could at that time. She was almost scandalised when her son studied to become an investment banker but was delighted in equal measure when her grandson decided to follow “her footsteps”, joining the armed forces after graduation from the military academy in Dehradun. Her son and daughter-in-law lived in the States now, he now employed in a well-known organization in Wall Street. They have often urged Grandma to move in with them but she refused.

“I will not leave my country for whose freedom your father and I have fought and for whose protection my grandson works.”

Her grandson often visited her during the days he got leave from work—something which made Neena extremely jealous in her pre-teens. She couldn’t bear the fact that Grandma would give attention to anyone except herself.

She had often asked Grandma to get her violin checked and fine-tuned—but the ones at Mishra Violins said it was in top order.

Neena couldn’t help but shake her head in disbelief—everyone apart from Grandma was adept in producing a musical note from the instrument; Neena got the feeling that even she herself might succeed in getting the violin play a few notes.

But Grandma was a quick learner—attested by many instances. Her grandson had gifted her a video camera when he got promoted and Neena had taught her how to use it. After a couple of hours or so, her wrinkled face glowed with innocent delight when she realized she could operate the contraption on her own.

After that, whenever Neena played with the other kids in the compound at evenings, she could see Grandma hobble around slowly as she video-taped their activities.

“Want to show my son how my life goes on.”

When Neena scored well in the tenth standard board exams, Grandma treated the entire building to home-made pitha (a type of stuffed Bengali pancake) and kachoris. She even video-taped Neena’s victory dance when she came to her apartment to deliver the news.

Two years later, just a month prior to Neena’s twelfth standard board exams’ result declaration, Grandma passed away. Though Neena was sad, she was glad that the passing was painless for her “old” friend–she had died peacefully in her sleep when her son’s family had come visiting. As her body, clad in a starched white cloth with only her face visible, was being loaded in the hearse, her son handed Neena a CD.

“Last night, she told me to give this CD to you,” he said before leaving for the cremation.

Neena held on to the thin cellophane package tightly, as if clutching her life itself. Her mother hugged her gently before leaving with the others—she knew her daughter couldn’t bear to watch her Grandma go up in flames.

“Go upstairs,” she said softly.

The apartment building was empty—almost everyone had gone to the nearby ghat for the cremation. Neena loaded the CD in the player and switched on the TV.

It was a slight shock to see her Grandma seated on her favourite rosewood chair next to her bedroom window. The fiery, dying rays of the setting sun painted the sky, giving an ethereal, unearthly glow to the entire scene. Grandma was clad in her trademark cream sari and held her violin in her arms.

“Your Grandfather loved to play the violin and often endeavoured to teach me. Unlike me, he was one fine player and played in many concerts post-independence. Too bad you didn’t get the opportunity to hear him play. It was because of his insistence that I started learning how to play the violin but I was practically hopeless. But he never gave up—even in his deathbed, he made me promise that I will keep on practising every day.

But you know it as well as I do that it was a disaster. But then again, I get this funny feeling that we wouldn’t be meeting for some time but I want you to be the first person to hear it.”

Then Grandma began to play. Neena didn’t recognize the melody but she didn’t care—it was rich and it was beautiful. The melody was a celebration of good times past and great times to come. After all these years, Grandma finally played a tune in her violin.

“I would have preferred a live performance but then, beggars can’t be choosers I guess. Time’s running short and I am afraid the daal in the cooker might burn to cinders if I don’t tend to it. Take care, little Neena.”

And the screen froze at Grandma’s smiling face.

Neena smiled back even though tears streamed down her face.

__END__

                                                                                              SOURCE BY-SRIJITA SARKAR

PUBLISHED BY-OURHELLO.COM