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Arun sat on the balcony of his modest apartment, gazing out at the bustling city below. The evening sun dipped low, casting a warm, golden hue across the skyline, yet a heavy weight settled in his chest. Today marked his father’s birthday, and for the first time in years, he wouldn’t be there to celebrate. Guilt washed over him like a tide, pulling him back through the years, to the moments he had taken for granted.

His thoughts drifted to his father, a tall man with calloused hands and a gentle smile that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He could vividly recall mornings spent watching his father prepare for work, the aroma of fresh chai wafting through the air, mixing with the anticipation of a new day. Arun had often found comfort in the rhythmic sound of his father’s shoelaces being tied, each knot symbolizing the dedication that would carry him through long hours and weary days.

“Remember, son,” his father would often say, his voice steady and calm, “hard work pays off.” Arun had watched as his father left before dawn, only to return long after sunset, his face etched with fatigue yet still lit by that ever-present smile. In those early years, Arun had cherished the simple joys of childhood, unaware of the sacrifices made in silence.

One particular memory stood out vividly in his mind—the day of the school’s annual sports meet. Arun had practiced tirelessly for the 100-meter dash, counting the days with growing excitement. But when the day arrived, he searched the crowd for his father’s familiar face and found only disappointment. The whistle blew, and as he raced down the track, he felt an emptiness where his father’s support should have been. After the race, he returned home, still buzzing from the thrill of victory but burdened by the absence of a cheer. His father was waiting at the table, looking tired yet proud.

“Did you win?” his father asked, his eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity. Arun nodded, and in that moment, the weight of disappointment began to lift. He understood then that his father’s love was not loud; it was woven into the fabric of their lives, stitched together by small gestures and quiet sacrifices.

As the years rolled on, Arun transitioned into his teenage years, a tumultuous time filled with peer pressure and academic challenges. The expectations loomed large, both self-imposed and those he believed his father harbored. Yet, his father never pressured him to excel; instead, he encouraged Arun to discover his passions.( To be continued)

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH

GUWAHATI , ASSAM , INDIA

13/11/2024

Your support is a great motivator for me

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Over the next few weeks, Aarohi found herself returning to the music store, practicing the violin with a dedication she hadn’t felt in a long time. The shopkeeper, whose name she learned was Mr. Rao, was patient with her, offering gentle guidance but never pushing her too hard. He understood her struggle, though he never pried into her past. Instead, he simply let her play, allowing her to rediscover her love for music at her own pace.

It wasn’t easy. There were days when Aarohi wanted to give up, when the frustration of not being able to hear her own music overwhelmed her. But every time she picked up the violin, something inside her softened. She began to realize that music wasn’t just about sound—it was about feeling, about connection. And even though her world had become one of silence, there was still beauty to be found in the spaces between the notes.

One afternoon, as she played a slow, melancholy tune on the violin, Mr. Rao sat down beside her, listening with his eyes closed. When she finished, he opened his eyes and smiled.

“You’ve found your melody again,” he said softly.

Aarohi shook her head, unsure. “It’s not the same,” she replied. “I can’t hear it like I used to.”

“No,” Mr. Rao agreed. “But maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, we lose something precious, only to find something else that we never knew we needed.”

Aarohi looked down at the violin in her hands, its wood worn smooth from hours of practice. She had spent so long mourning the loss of her hearing, of the life she had once known, that she hadn’t realized there could be another way to experience music—through her hands, her heart, and her soul.

As the months passed, Aarohi slowly began to rebuild her life. She continued to play the violin, not for the applause or the accolades, but for herself. Music became her refuge once again, but in a different way. It wasn’t about perfection or performance—it was about expression, about finding her voice in a world that had gone silent.

One evening, Aarohi decided to play in the village square, something she had never done before. She brought her violin, stood in the centre, and began to play. At first, only a few people stopped to listen, but soon a crowd gathered. Though Aarohi couldn’t hear their applause or the murmurs of appreciation, she could feel their presence, their connection to the music.

And in that moment, she realised that she hadn’t lost music after all. She had simply found a new melody, one that resonated not through sound, but through the unspoken language of the heart.(END)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

Guwahati , Assam , India 

11/11/2024

SLIDE 23

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Months passed, and the seasons changed, but Aarohi remained trapped in her grief. One evening, after a particularly difficult day, she found herself wandering through the city, unsure of where she was headed. The sun had set, and the streets were bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. She walked aimlessly, her hands deep in her coat pockets, when she noticed a small music store tucked away in a corner.

Aarohi stood outside the shop for a moment, hesitating. She hadn’t been near music since the accident, and the idea of stepping inside felt like reopening an old wound. But something about the shop drew her in. It wasn’t like the grand concert halls she was used to—it was humble, filled with old instruments and vinyl records, the kind of place that seemed frozen in time.

Inside, the store was warm, with the faint smell of wood and dust in the air. An elderly man sat behind the counter, his gray hair tousled, and his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He looked up as she entered, offering her a gentle smile.

“Looking for something special?” he asked, his voice kind.

Aarohi shook her head, unsure of what to say. She hadn’t spoken about music to anyone in months, and the words felt foreign on her tongue. But before she could respond, her eyes fell on something in the corner—a violin, resting on a worn velvet case.

There was something about the instrument that caught her attention, something in the way it seemed to call to her, even in the silence of her world. She walked over to it, her fingers brushing the smooth wood. The violin was old, but beautifully crafted, its strings delicate yet strong.

“Ah, the violin,” the shopkeeper said, coming over to her. “It has its own kind of magic, doesn’t it?”

Aarohi nodded, though she wasn’t sure why. She had never played the violin before, her entire life having been dedicated to the piano. But in that moment, she felt something stir within her—something she hadn’t felt since the accident.

Without thinking, she asked, “Can I try it?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes twinkled, as if he had been waiting for her to ask. He handed her the violin and a bow, watching as she positioned it awkwardly under her chin. Aarohi’s hands trembled slightly as she drew the bow across the strings, producing a low, haunting sound that resonated deep within her.

Though she couldn’t hear the music the way she once had, she could feel it. The vibrations of the strings against her fingers, the way the notes seemed to pulse through her body. It wasn’t the same as playing the piano, but there was something raw, something real about it.

She closed her eyes and played again, this time with more confidence. The sound that filled the room was not perfect—it was rough, hesitant, but it was music. For the first time in months, Aarohi felt a connection to something beyond her silence.( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

Guwahati , Assam , India 

08/11/2024

SLIDE -22

From my book , A New Dawn : Adventure in the Golden Years