SLIDE 23

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Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

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

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

The sound of a grand piano echoed through the auditorium, each note crisp and clear, filling the room with a sense of awe. Every time Aarohi’s fingers danced across the keys, it was as if the music came alive. People often said that when she played, it wasn’t just music; it was a conversation, a dialogue between the notes and the soul. The young prodigy had been playing since the age of six, and by twenty, she had already become a sensation in the world of classical music.

But the world Aarohi knew, the world built on the delicate harmonies and rhythms of her talent, came crashing down on an ordinary afternoon.

She had been walking home from a rehearsal, her mind still replaying the chords of Beethoven’s Sonata in her head, when the accident happened. A speeding car, a screech of tires, and the sound of shattering glass. The next few moments were a blur of pain and confusion. When Aarohi woke up in the hospital, the world had changed.

At first, she couldn’t understand why the voices around her sounded distant, like they were trapped behind a wall. The doctors’ mouths moved, but the sounds didn’t reach her the way they used to. It was only when her parents stood by her bed, tears streaming down their faces, that she realised the truth. She had lost her hearing.

The days that followed were a nightmare. Aarohi refused to believe it. How could someone whose entire life had been defined by sound lose the very thing that made them who they were? She lashed out, pushing away everyone who tried to help her. The doctors suggested hearing aids, surgery, anything that might restore some semblance of sound, but nothing seemed to work. Every time she touched the piano, her fingers would freeze, paralyzed by the silence that now surrounded her.

The loss wasn’t just physical; it was spiritual. Music had been her identity, her solace, and her escape. Without it, she felt like a shadow of herself, empty and incomplete. The world became a prison of silence, and Aarohi locked herself away in her small apartment, refusing to face the reality that had been forced upon her.

Her parents were devastated, watching their once-brilliant daughter withdraw into a shell. They tried everything to lift her spirits—visiting doctors, therapists, and even musicians who had faced similar struggles. But Aarohi’s pain ran deeper than they could understand. Every morning she would sit at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys, but she couldn’t bring herself to play a single note. The silence mocked her, a constant reminder of everything she had lost.

( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

Guwahati , Assam , India 

04/11/2024

SLIDE-21

© All rights reserved by the author

Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

As dusk began to settle over the village, Aarav stepped outside, the cool evening air bringing a sense of peace. He lit the lantern, just as he had done countless times before when he was a child. The flame flickered to life, casting a soft, golden glow that danced in the twilight.

For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. The world was quiet, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and the little lantern was once again the center of his world. He closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him—he could hear Dadi’s voice, soft and melodic, as if she were right there beside him.

“There was once a little lantern,” she would begin, “that hung outside a small cottage on the edge of a village. It wasn’t the biggest or brightest lantern, but it had a special gift. You see, this little lantern had the power to hold stories—stories of the people who lived in the village, stories of love, loss, and adventure. And every night, as the villagers slept, the lantern would glow softly, whispering these stories into the wind.”

Aarav smiled, remembering how captivated he had been by the idea of a magical lantern that could hold stories. He had believed, as only a child could, that the little lantern outside Dadi’s cottage was that very lantern, that it held within it all the tales she had ever told him.

But now, as an adult, he wondered if there was a different kind of magic at play—the magic of memory, of connection, of love passed down through generations.

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight touched the village, Aarav found himself unable to leave. He had come with the intention of saying goodbye, of closing this chapter of his life. But something held him back.

He spent the day walking through the village, greeting old neighbors and friends who were surprised but delighted to see him. Many of them shared their own memories of Dadi—the time she had nursed a sick child back to health, the stories she had told at village gatherings, the warmth she brought to everyone she met.

It became clear to Aarav that Dadi had not just been his storyteller; she had been the storyteller of the entire village. Her stories had woven the fabric of this community, binding people together with shared experiences, lessons, and laughter.

As evening fell once again, Aarav returned to the cottage, his mind swirling with thoughts of the past. The lantern, still glowing faintly from the night before, seemed to call to him, its light steady and reassuring.

He sat on the porch, staring at the flame. And then, without fully understanding why, he began to speak.

“There was once a little boy,” he said softly, “who lived in a small village with his grandmother. She was the wisest woman he had ever known, and she told him stories that filled his heart with wonder. Every night, under the light of a little lantern, she would spin tales of courage, kindness, and magic. And as the boy grew older, he realized that these stories were not just entertainment—they were lessons, passed down from generation to generation, teaching him how to live, how to love, and how to remember.”

The words flowed easily, as if they had been waiting for this moment. And as he spoke, Aarav felt a sense of peace settle over him. He wasn’t just telling a story; he was honoring the legacy of his grandmother, keeping her memory alive in the same way she had kept the stories of their ancestors alive.( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India 

01/11/2024