The Pianist

The Pianist’s fingers waltzed daintily on the black and white keys of his Steinway and out came tumbling the lilting, honey drunken notes. Clear as crystalline dew drops, warm as dreams of loved ones, grey as monsoon clouds, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, they told his story to the looming dark clouds, they sang his lore to the crying winds outside. From the stream of whiskey that snaked from the upturned bottle on the carpet, to the revolver that lay by his side, his material and immaterial audiences sighed and listened intently to his lulling last tune, their tune, swaying violently to the turbulent winds that rocked his little dwelling by the brook.

He played for her tonight, he played to her shadows, he let his fingers translate the dictate of his heart as the notes searched for her in the empty, desolate corners of his existence, searched for her beautiful voice in the dark, dusty air of his dwelling. They wanted to reach out to her, to tell her of his dark madness, to remind her, that one last touch of remembrance, of a loving kiss kissed, of a once earnest promise promised, of love that had once been and of a fragile mind that has lost to the heart in the race.

Elsewhere, she knotted her rich finery, bejeweled with her present and future with someone else’s. Yet, as she rose, a listless swan, to walk after him, around the fiery, holy, flame, an inadvertent song sprang in her heart and sweetly, she sang with him his lulling last tune.
His one hand rose from the keys and groped for his gun. Still playing with the other hand, he picked it up and rested his forefinger on the cold metallic crescent inside the ring.

As a thumb bloodied itself with vermillion, her song reached it’s coda, she knew she loved him, and for this folly she’d die anew everyday. Oh what a colossal folly. The time was now to act, to undo what was being done…
Two clear shots rang out amidst the windy carousel that night and her breasts exploded in a burst of red. Amidst all the hell breaking loose around her she fell in a flurry of flowers and jewels, her knot broke with a snap. The retreating, panicking well-wishers split to reveal the Pianist in the crowd. The silvery, wispy smoke from his gun coiled and hung low in the night air as he strode up to where she lay.
Her forehead bore no sign of red, the thick garlands, she had broken and the sacred, nuptial necklace followed a snaking, winding course of gold and black beads over the flowing red river.

“She was on her way back to you, you fool, on her way back to YOU…” cried someone.

For a split moment a crimson, ruby spangled crown formed on the fluvial stream of blood and disappeared immediately as a salty drop dissolved in it.

The air was split by another deafening report.

Beams of light from an early morning sun ushered in numerous tiny, illuminated particles of dust that seemed to come dancing all the way from the skies above like little blessings. In his bright, little chamber the Pianist cradled her in his arms lovingly and gazed into her auburn eyes as little songbirds chirped heartily at his windowsill. The little dwelling overlooked a luscious, green meadow by a busy, bubbling brook whose cool waters cascaded onto little terraces of moss covered rocks and formed playful concentric currents in the soft shadow of ferns growing on the edges of the water.
A pair of hands descended gently upon the old Steinway’s keys and drummed out a familiar allegro. At length, they were joined by another pair, dainty and small. Her demure fingers almost instinctively trailed his tune and played a subtler melodic progression to it and suddenly, they felt, they had known this intro. This faintly sweet melody, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, a lulling last tune… their lulling last tune?

In some past life, perhaps, in another earthly existence.

And so sat the Pianist and his love painting the air with a lovely sonata, now fast and confident, now shy and reticent, now slow, now breathless, now angry and gurgling, a lulling last tune, their lulling last tune!

                                                                                                                                                                  - Ronojoy Basu