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o one would even guess how she changed me after those weeks that she didn’t play a note on her piano….when the clock struck ten.
Upon looking at her, she was….well, an average looking student who hurdles daily hassles adequately. I watched her leave her flat at about 7:30 o’clock in the morning and arrive from school at exactly 8 o’ clock in the evening. She does this routine without a slight indication of the turmoil (turmoil: confused disturbance: a state of great confusion, commotion, or disturbance) in her heart. We lived on adjacent flats, and without difficulty, I observed her obvious lifestyle pattern.
To me, she had a materialized as a lake….all clear and serene on the surface but had unfathomable depth within. Even before the curtains fell upon the performer, I already discerned that there was something wrong in the show.
What was interesting about her is that she happened to be a very gifted musician, a pianist. Every night, at exactly 10 o’clock , she played the music could make even the most stone-hearted person cry. There was something in her music that seep through the deepest portion of my heart. Every night, I made it a habit to arrive early as possible just to catch the show and I wouldn’t dare miss a single episode.
But her music spokes of melancholy (Melancholy: feeling or making somebody feel a thoughtful or gentle sadness). She has never played a cheerful tune. Before, I had always thought that the music that one preffered was give-away to what musician felt inside. My mistake….. I never took the moment reality to really listen to what the notes told me. I was enjoying it too much to delve into my paranoia.
At 10 o’clock , my problems seemed suspend momentarily because of her music. It was like addiction. The more time I spent in the window, waiting for the performer to take her seat and play, the more relaxed and calm I seemed to be. I was never the “music person” but she got me converted. I had been follower of her passion and a lover of her art. And I did all these without even knowing my patron’s name.
For months now, this idiophatic behaviour of mine went on. I never cared for TV shows and telenovelas. All that mattered to me was that I had to arrive by 9 o’clock (in case she starts the show earlier than usual, which never happened).
With her music circumfluenting the humid night, one would wish in desperation to desist time and let the notes travel for eternity. I might have described her music superfluously but what the heart felt was never a question. Without knowing, the pianist was able to feed my hungry soul and nurse my tattered spirits back to life.
However, one faithful night, she never came. I waited for her until I fell asleep by windowpane but she never came. I felt desolate but I could do nothing but wait. Silly I was, I planned to howl or break her door to make her play even just few keys. I was desperate. Where was the passion when I needed the most? But I had to digress. Perhaps she was busy or something. Mistake number two: I never took courage to find out why.
Every night I waited for her with perseverance hoping that she might at least play or strike a key or two but no avail. I do not wish to disengage from this misery. If they called this addiction, I might be suffering from withdrawal symptoms.
This went on for two weeks until finally, the secret was out.
The first thing I saw the flashy uniforms of the police. What were these people doing in our compound? Did somebody got himself toasted by burglars? I hurriedly reached out for the keys--- thank God they were still inside my pocket. A haggard looking media man with a tattered jacket and worn out jeans was also taking something. What seemed to be the problem? My heart was beating so fast, I could hardly breathe.
I wormed my ways towards the source of the havoc. There was confusion around with all the clicking and the labeling going on. I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to see…it was a horrible sight. For I saw the pianist bathed in her own blood and her lifeless body limp just below the seat of the piano. Her eyes opened, her pale face had the look of death, and her clothes were soaked with dark blood. The white keys of the piano were also stained with her blood. The entire room even smelled of blood and death. I always see crime scenes by watching CSI in TV but this was different--- I was here, the body was here…death was here. And it made me sick.
I wanted o scream. My foot seemed to be anchored on the floor that moving wasn’t possible. Dying shouldn’t be like this. With her lifeless body, slumped on the floor just like that---it was dreadful.
One policeman (thank God) managed to wake me from my stupor. With booming voice he told me “Cool it. You shouldn’t be here. Get away!” .Then I hurriedly grabbed my keys and rushed to my flat. There, I vomited to my heart’s content. It took sometime before I was able to recover from my plight. When I woke up, the horrible scene was still registered in my mind and its impact still gnawing inside of me. I tried to forget by busying myself with school work and watching the local new but zilch--- the image was there….projected in my head like a stain, difficult to remove.
As the days rolled on, news con firmed that the pianist committed suicide. But I never forgot the look of death in her face as blood pooled around her. What problem is so great that her music couldn’t heal? I have always thought that her music, well because she created it was also her escape to reality. But I was wrong....she may have been suffering chronically but I was also preoccupied with my own coping.
With remorse, I flipped the pages of her music book, remembering the notes that sustained me throughout the months. Her melody was an interplay of heart, soul, passion, and music no one could copy. Silently, I prayed for her to finally be at peace. I know somewhere, somehow she is once again playing the piano and giving hope to troubled souls.
Now, the curtain had fallen and the show had come to finale.
