That would be 98.6 pounds, ma’am” said the cashier.
Leena handed her the credit card. She was shopping like a tourist in a city she had lived all her life. She got herself a sundress, a hat, a couple of shorts and flip flops. The sun outside was gleaming. She had to put on her shades. Stepping out, she mounted her bicycle and headed home.
Leena’s room was in a ramshackle. From her late teen years, she had had this habit of cluttering her room before going out. The clothes she momentarily fancied wearing but ended up not wearing strewn all across the floor; makeup brush, eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks lying here and there; sticky notes containing daily reminders on the mirror. One simply couldn’t walk inside the room without tripping over something. However, this wasn’t the day for decluttering. She had a classical music show to attend in the very evening that she needed to get ready for.
The place was moderately crowded. She took a seat in the front row and placed her bag on the ground. She didn’t see any familiar face around and heaved a sigh of relief. She hates company. More precisely, she hates conversations with people who she doesn’t have similar interests with. Or with people who interrupt her train of thoughts. She likes thinking. She likes absorbing the moment without any interference from people who simply never understood. On her last trip with family, she was made fun of for staring at the ocean non stop for an hour. She didn’t bother to explain how much more there was to this act that they called “staring”. Not being understood is her biggest pet peeve.
The show was to start in an hour. She thought the hour spent in waiting for Federico Albero could be spent here, listening to whoever the guest on the stage was then. The anchor was thoroughly intimidated by his guest. It showed. He blinked frequently and held his mic in a jittery manner. His guest, on the other hand, seemed very much at ease. He sat with his legs crossed and talked of politics and the economic state of the country – things Leena had no interest in.
Albero arrived right on time, wearing the usual white shirt, black suit and a bow tie and was welcomed with a round of applause. He picked up his famous rosewood violin and sat in his chair, possibly unaware of how he was about to make everyone’s life worthwhile with that one single performance that evening in Sicily. Gesturing something to the instrumentalists at the back, he started playing a piece that had been Leena’s companion for all those four years in college – Serein.
For some time, Leena couldn’t believe what was happening. It all seemed so unreal. Never before did she ever feel so fortunate to be alive. She carefully took off her ear plugs to immerse herself in the moment. With every deep breath she took, her chest swelled up like a tidal wave. As she blinked, tears streamed from her eyes, to her cheeks, down to her collarbones. She gazed straight ahead. Her forehead slightly wrinkled, her lips pursed. Every stroke of that violin flowed through the length of her. She choked back her intense yearning to cry her heart out. Then… it was over. For the following few moments, a sense of awe prevailed and silence fell upon the auditorium.
Sometimes, that’s how appreciation for art shows up – in the form of silence. Complete, utter silence. For who could show the audacity of mouthing earthly words after experiencing something so inexplicably beautiful and celestial?
About the Author
Shahreen Khan Taan is a young writer from Dhaka, Bangladesh, currently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree at North South University. She is a Tagore enthusiast who loves art in all its forms.
