Once upon a time, I used to play the Sitar. I learned for three-four years and practiced sincerely whenever I had the time. My assiduousness evoked no admirers in The Family. I was asked politely but firmly to close the door of my room whenever I fancied riyaz. It puzzled me why The Family (who claim to be such classical music fans) should object to my rendition of the ragas.
The answer came to me when I decided to tape my riyaz one day. When I replayed the tape, I was sincerely shocked to hear a pig squealing in the background. Further investigations revealed that the ‘pig’ was actually my sitar.
Clearly it was time for me and my sitar to part. Great was the sorrow at this melancholy moment and we all wept, my parents out of sheer joy and me with serious misery. A tall skinny man from the musical instruments shop had come to take it away. Thus ended my musical career.
I still get nostalgic when I see or hear a sitar. But then I tell myself that sometimes one has to sacrifice for the greater good of the people. I still have hope. Someday I shall play my sitar with finesse and the audience will not run away.
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