THE STRINGS OF A VIOLA

When going to Scottish Church College, Deepro saw the man for the second time today. He had the look typical of the Bengali bard they call Tagore- long hair combed beautifully and a beard that was long enough to reach the middle of his chest. He wore a men's salwar and aligari pyjamas. He attracted the attention of many like our ostensible Chartered Accountant; but that was more for the viola he held in his hand than for the looks he had. Now most people in this region of the world fail to distinguish between the violin and its smaller counterpart. They are too bothered with arranging for the soaps they scrub on their bodies and feeding their minds with the sops on tv to burden themselves with such menial tasks.

But Deepro knew. He immediately recognised the viola in the hands of the old man. Then the man began to play. First on D-minor then on F-major and then...no, CA Deepro Bhattacharyya was not a student of music or literature or any of those things they call the fine arts; yet he felt as if the tune being played was the tune he had been searching for his whole life. He didn't know what it was or how to play it or anything else... yet as he moved on and as the tune became fainter and fainter, he felt as if it would be worth his whole life to learn that beautiful piece.

                                                                  *******

Deepro has made it a habit now to go stand before Scottish Church College everyday and listen to the old man play his viola. Deepro used to arrive at the scene at 10.55 in the morning and the old man used to come 5 minutes later. He used to play for a complete two hours-till the first shift of the college was over- and then went away without a word to his sole audience. This routine hasn't changed in the last four months.

After a few days Deepro saw that the man was writing poetry in Bengali. Even from a distance the man's handwriting was exquisite-a treat for the eyes. The viola lay on one side on the street while its master penned his thoughts in words rather than in music. Usually he didn't mix poetry with music other than on days when-as Deepro felt-his heart pleased so.

Deepro had read some of the man's poetry by picking up the sheets that he had completed writing from his side. It had made no sense to him and neither did he want to discern the sense. He wanted to use the opportunity to talk to the man. Strangely, the maestro always remained strangely oblivious to his sole audience.

Yes, Deepro was his sole audience. The students of Scottish were as uninterested about this man as he was to them. Some of them turned to look as he played his viola, but never stood through the whole performance. Brilliance has its own demands!

But Deepro remained where he was. It was his daily pilgrimage to see the man and hear his viola or simply take in the beautiful form of those words he wrote, the meanings of which he didn't understand. Deepro was  the proprietor of large firm of chartered accountants and cost accountants. Yet this young man in his early thirties wasn't satisfied. As he sat on a granite bench near the old man who was playing his viola, Deepro was transported backwards.

 What had he done so far? What had he-CA CS CMA Deepro Bhattacharyya- achieved in life so far?

Amazingly, the answer that Deepro had for these questions didn't please him. Let's face it, he had been nothing more than a slave to others, a humbug and a stooge. He had neither the time nor the encouragement to do what he wished in his life. He doesn't even have it now. Actually, he didn't have the guts. He kiilled  his own personality. A puppet to the wishes of his family and the peers of his colleagues, he had refrained from doing anything that would make him happy. He remembered that in school he was praised for his writing. People said he had a talent which was uncanny. Yet he had killed his talent. And for what! A bagful of degrees. He was more concerned with hat people would say than what he himself thought. No, he never had the guts. He didn't have an identity.

For the first time in many years Deepro cried. He cried like hell and heaven were one. He cried as if he had lost everything. Indeed he had.

                                                                      ********

That day Deepro bought a diary on his way home. It wasn't one of those cheap executive diaries that everyone used  but  was beautifully bound in brown leather with "Diary" printed on top in golden lettering. When he reached home, Deepro sat at his desk, opened the diary and wrote on the first page, "I have made all knowledge my province". He turned the page and wrote on top "The Man of Scottish".

For the first time in his life CA CS CMA Deepro Bhattacharyya was playing the strings of a viola.