His Teacher's Tale

"When I was young," his teacher often told him, smiling wryly, "I was put on stage and asked to play. And I played. Sometimes, twice a day. Sometimes, thrice." The first time he heard this story, he was only twelve. He didn't comprehend the pain that hid behind this smile. "And did people come and listen to you?" he asked. "Sometimes, twice a day. Sometimes, thrice," his teacher replied. They both laughed. It was a regular ritual - his teacher would tell him the same story, he would ask the same question, and his teacher would say the same answer.

The story grew as he grew - it mirrored his slow transformation from innocence to cynicism, it changed from a mere tale to a warning. "Sometimes, I was made to play till I cried. Finish a concert, run for the next one. A bus here, a train there, and a bullock cart to the little village." He was upset when he heard this - he couldn't believe how someone could treat his teacher so badly - his teacher was such a nice man. Maybe, there was some purpose that his teacher was too young to see at the time, "But it made you famous, didn't it?" It did make his teacher famous. A vidwan, listening to his teacher, when he was still a little boy, told another vidwan sitting next to him, "I think we need to find another profession." The other man replied, "I'm at least educated. What will you do?"

"But at what price?" his teacher always asked.

The story wounded his teacher from the inside, and he bled slowly. It started with a reluctance to play, then a raging alcohol habit, sudden bursts of eccentricity on and off stage, temporary disappearings, and resulted in a trail of unfulfilled concert obligations. "Why?" he asked his teacher. His teacher didn't answer the question. Instead, he asked him some of his own, "Do you know what the word 'responsibility' means? Have you ever been responsible for the well-being of six other people?" He didn't understand why he was asked those questions then.

He began accompanying his teacher in many concerts. Sometimes he was stunned by his teacher's genius, by the sheer fact that he could play ten entirely different Shankarabharanams on ten consecutive days, by the fact that he could confound the best of the percussionists with his rhythm, by the fact that he could touch a commoner's heart and tickle a pundit's brain with the same phrase. On other days, he just covered up for his teacher's shoddiness, filling up the gaps in his teacher's drunken, broken raga explorations, finishing off songs that his teacher would start playing and get bored of, and finishing off concerts that his teacher didn't come for or left midway. Why did his teacher choose to be shoddy on some days? "Do you like the music you play?" he asked. "It depends." "On?" "Whether I'm playing because I want to, or I'm playing because someone else wants me to. Frankly, I've had too much of the latter in my life."

He once wondered if his teacher had ever been happy - he set such high standards for his own music that even a small slip led to sleepless nights. And on those days that he played because someone else wanted him to, he set his standards so low that he embarrassed himself.

The night before, he had been drinking with his teacher. A little high, he said, "I miss my childhood." His teacher replied, with that characteristic smile, "I missed my childhood!"

Six months later, towards the end of a concert in Bangalore, his teacher announced, "Tonight, there will be a very happy news, for me, at least. You know that I have been playing for more than the past forty-three years out of necessity only. I vow to retire from now. It may be a sad news for you, but a glad news for me. I know many of you must be sorry, but I am relieved. I mean, I have played throughout these years, but I had taken to music by accident, and played only for necessity so far. Necessity... burdening on my shoulders for so long... is gone! Today onwards, I will not play under obligation. I will play when I feel like playing. I will call you when I feel like playing, and you will listen to me, for no money. No obligation. Never any obligation. Never in my life again. No more. Sakaaithu!"

For the first time in his life, that night, he saw a genuine smile on his teacher's face.
***

Inpsired by this.