Paper Pianos

“What have you got in the bag?” Rishabh asked, pointing to the floral print cloth bag that she was holding close to her chest. Not that he cared, but simply because he wanted to initiate some small talk.

Kripa shrugged. “Nothing in particular”

If Rishabh hadn’t gazed at her intently, he might have missed the two rosy spots that bloomed on her cheeks.

He ran his fingers over the keys casually. Kripa threw a faint smile at the piano which faded away when her eyes reached his face.She was sitting perched on a stool, several feet away from him. The distance bothered him. ‘Having spent twelve years apart, we had already grown distant enough, why add more to it?’ He wanted to ask. But he figured that that question wouldn’t elicit small talk, but rather serious talk that would bring few tears, or even many.

Another thing that bothered him was her silence. It seemed so unusual of her. She had always been the talker, and him, the ever-patient listener. He knew that they can’t fill in each other on everything that had happened during the years he had been away. But the fact that she wasn’t taking even the slightest effort to talk, made him wonder if she had ever loved him or even missed him during those years.

He sighed and began to play a tune to block the thoughts, memories and untold confessions. Suddenly, he stopped‌, leaving the note hovering in the air. His eyes caught an origami piano lying near the leg of the piano. He bent down to pick it. “You remember these?” he asked, holding it up for her to see.

She nodded. And once again, those rosy spots appeared, only this time they were brighter.

He scrutinized the paper piano more closely. 30/10/99 was scribbled on the corner. ‘She must have made it before one of my first performances’ he thought. He toyed with it, as he remembered how she always used to make a paper piano before every concert of his. It had been her idea of a lucky charm.

He chuckled softly. ‘Some lucky charm!

I created my best compositions only during the years we spent apart. I haven’t received any letters from her since the time I left the town, leave alone these worthless paper pianos’ he thought, feeling annoyed.

As he turned to the piano again, he wondered why he had decided to revisit his hometown. He had very few connections to be traced back, very few memories that still remained intact, because most of them have been blurred by the sheen of success and fame. ‘Well, to say the goodbyes I should have said twelve years ago, maybe even to savour the warmth of a feeling that had once resembled love, for one last time’, he had reasoned out to himself several times during the journey.

He shifted his weight restlessly. “What do you want to listen to?” he asked her, partly for old times’ sake, but mostly to showcase his brilliance.

She seemed to ponder over it.

He ran the list of possibilities in his head. He assumed that she might ask for his first composition or maybe even one of his latest compositions which he would play at next concert in London, whose tickets she can’t afford.

“Play something that can drown the noise of my heart breaking into a million pieces”

He stared at her , wondering if he heard it right. She stared back, as a sad, wistful smile played along the corners of her lips.

If he had been more of a lover than a musician, he would have walked over to her and held her until she felt better, maybe even kissed her softly. But he knew he’d always be more of a musician than a lover. So, he almost took it as a challenge.

He turned to his piano. Having his back to her, he closed his eyes to summon one of his most soulful compositions ever. Then, he began to play. As he moved his fingers over the keys, with his eyes half-closed, he lost himself in the pulse of the rhythm, he felt himself being stripped of all his awards, accolades and titles as he bowed down in reverence before the ever-humbling Music that flowed through him.

Then suddenly, he felt his chest tighten; it seemed like the room was closing in on him, the room where the most memorable moments of his childhood had happened, where he had created his first composition, where they had had most of their conversations, where he had revealed to her that he was leaving the town to pursue his dreams, and had watched her break down as each tear made him rethink his decision, where their unasked questions and shallow promises still lurked behind the curtains.

When he finished playing, he felt tears in his eyes. He turned around to see her response. But she was gone.

The cloth bag with the floral print was lying open on the stool she had sat on. It seemed like she had left it unzipped on purpose, hoping that he would examine its contents. Out of sheer curiosity, he walked to the bag When he peered into the bag, he felt his mouth go dry. There were dozens of paper pianos, each with a date scribbled on its corner. On a whim, he emptied the bag on the stool, and ran his hands frantically over the heap. Then he felt a sudden jerk, when his eyes fell on a particular paper piano. With a shaky hand, he lifted it up. On its corner, the digits 17/10/2019 were written- the date of his next concert.