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If Only I Could Play For You.
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May. 12th, 2008 | 04:18 am
mood: 
high
music: 9th Symphony Naranja Mecanica
“I have had terrible experiences with piano solos.” – Sarthak.
Three years back, after it’d been two years of discovering St. Stephens’, I took Zubin there for the first time.
Another victim of assonant criticism for the college by all outsiders, he’d grouch on about how it’s a school, with a mess, an assembly, a study schedule, churlish students churning false airs around their head, and all that crap.
So, being somebody who’d loved the place for its ability to depress and inspire synchronously, I brought Zubin along the next time.
And treated him with some crap.
Like I’d brought him packed in a hot traveling bag and he’d hit the ground and rolled, once unrolled at the entrance gate. Like a kid on my shoulders who’s pinky is being put into the mouth of this beast hanging on a wall.
Zubin loved everything I did to him. So much, he gathered all his word-ly debris and dumped it on the pile of weathered leaves. They’re a subtle golden, there at Stephens’. When I was relieved, when I had a patient ear which would strife to hear anything I whisper in ecstasy about Stephens’, I took him to the Chapel.
This outstation student was playing the piano. She didn’t bother with us. She didn’t bother with me when I slipped a Holy Bible into my bag. And suddenly, she played in a language that was brail to me, it touches you.
She played Moonlight Sonata.
She played Beethoven.
It wasn’t Mozart, I can always tell.
Her fingers swatting and the gentle notes of the master piece responding in a pleasure moan. Zubin was awe-stuck. Some last minute silence and we made our exit from the crevices, crushing leaves underneath.
I feel like destroying the world for your bad piano solo experiences, Sarthak.
Three years back, after it’d been two years of discovering St. Stephens’, I took Zubin there for the first time.
Another victim of assonant criticism for the college by all outsiders, he’d grouch on about how it’s a school, with a mess, an assembly, a study schedule, churlish students churning false airs around their head, and all that crap.
So, being somebody who’d loved the place for its ability to depress and inspire synchronously, I brought Zubin along the next time.
And treated him with some crap.
Like I’d brought him packed in a hot traveling bag and he’d hit the ground and rolled, once unrolled at the entrance gate. Like a kid on my shoulders who’s pinky is being put into the mouth of this beast hanging on a wall.
Zubin loved everything I did to him. So much, he gathered all his word-ly debris and dumped it on the pile of weathered leaves. They’re a subtle golden, there at Stephens’. When I was relieved, when I had a patient ear which would strife to hear anything I whisper in ecstasy about Stephens’, I took him to the Chapel.
This outstation student was playing the piano. She didn’t bother with us. She didn’t bother with me when I slipped a Holy Bible into my bag. And suddenly, she played in a language that was brail to me, it touches you.
She played Moonlight Sonata.
She played Beethoven.
It wasn’t Mozart, I can always tell.
Her fingers swatting and the gentle notes of the master piece responding in a pleasure moan. Zubin was awe-stuck. Some last minute silence and we made our exit from the crevices, crushing leaves underneath.
I feel like destroying the world for your bad piano solo experiences, Sarthak.