The Last Concert

Sir Walter raised the baton in his hand and paused for a moment before throwing his hands forward and immediately a dozen violins and violas came alive with the cheerful melody of the first movement of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

"About two months or so," the doctor had muttered hesitantly after much persuasion. Two months- that was all left for Sir Walter to live. Sir Walter was about seventy years old, and he had got everything that one could possibly ask from life, and moreover he knew well in his heart that he was nearing his mortal end. He hadn't worried about it much, for he had realized that he will continue to live through his music in the hearts of many classical music lovers. All he wanted was to die peacefully in his sleep, and even better if that was to happen on a moonlit night, when a soothing melody from afar had found its way into his bedroom through the open windows. He had given the world everything he had to offer as a musician, and had always felt that it would only be fair if he were to have a graceful end, like a candle flame that finally drowns itself in the molten wax. But that probably wasn't going to happen. When the Doctor numbered his days, for Sir Walter it came like a sudden mortality notice handed down to him from the heavens above. The fake reassurance from the Doctor, "We will try chemotherapy," only exacerbated his agony, since the medical treatment portended more suffering as opposed to his earnest wish for a quiet end.

"Only two months!!" was the reaction from Henry James, the Executive Director of the New England Philharmonic Orchestra, on hearing the news about Sir Walter's health from the Orchestra's concertmaster, Zbigniew Rubinsky. "We will need to start to get arranged for his last concert immediately," he announced. 'CD and Video recordings of Sir Walter's Last Concert' were surely going to sell a few million copies, and so he quickly set forth with the calculations. "Talk about it to Sir Walter, and ask him what he would like to conduct," he instructed Rubinsky. As Rubinsky was about to leave the room, Henry called out again, "Ask him if he would like the orchestra to play the requiem of Mozart, and then Beethoven's Ninth Symphony or maybe some Vivaldi". That collection would surely boost the sales he thought in his mind, and a smile appeared on his lips but it stopped spreading over his cheeks on being stung by his conscience. He felt a bit embarrassed and quickly went about doing his usual business.

"Who told it to the Press now?" Sir Walter had asked Rubinsky when he saw the report about his health along with the news of his last concert on the front page of the daily. The Recording Company and the Orchestra both had fed the inquisitive Press and critics about the 'Last' recording of Sir Walter's Symphony. They had culled up a guest list with luminaries from different fields, Dukes and Duchesses, Dames and Knights, Musicians, Artists and Politicians. It had got the publicity that the companies and the sponsors were looking for. Sir Walter had felt utter disgust for the blooming commerce surrounding this event and had even considered withdrawing from it, but deep down within him he knew that he had to perform for one more time, for he had convinced himself that the only graceful exit from this life could now be achieved through one last brilliant performance.

The arrangements for the symphony was overseen by Henry himself. It took less than a month to get the whole thing organized, and the musicians practiced relentlessly under Rubinsky's guidance. Though debilitated from chemotherapy, Sir Walter managed to come many times to conduct practice sessions. And when the night finally came, the opera hall had no seats left. The guests arrived immaculately dressed for the occasion, wearing a somber look on their face. Sir Walter came in through a different entrance and refused to meet the press or anybody else for that matter. He didn't want to be weakened by sympathetic looks. But he did make an exception for his long time friend and fellow conductor, Zubin. Zubin tried to put on a light mood, he had known Walter for a time long enough to know that Walter won't like to hear words of pity, but when they shook hands Sir Walter felt an unusual warmth in the handshake and a small pat on the arm, which was meant for encouragement -the kind of encouragement that one reserves for a dying man.

Sir Walter was standing on the conductor's podium with his eyes closed. The baton in his hand moved gracefully, curving out shapes in air with each beat. They were already in the second movement, the lyrical first theme was followed by a more rhythmic second one. This was the music that Sir Walter's mother played beautifully on her violin. He had grown up listening to music, in fact grown old with music. Well no, he wasn't old, he refused to be called so, for his music hadn't allowed him to become senile. His mind was still young, full of joy and awe for those notes. "This gentleman here is one of the most promising young conductors," was the way he was introduced to Igor Stravinsky at the Royal Festive Hall in 1965. But back then, he was indeed young, physically.

In the early '60s, at the St Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna, Sir Walter had his first immensely successful performance. That night the nave and the fan vaults of the baroque style cathedral all came alive once more with the melody of Mozart's music. As the tenors and the sopranos sang, the sleeping spires woke up and listened with open wise eyes of a dreaming philosopher. And on that night, Sir Walter had met the most beautiful woman, Angela. She wore flowing white robes and a glittering pearl necklace. She had a mesmerizing beauty in her hazel eyes and the brown locks of her hair. Sir Walter's eyes had followed her dainty little movements and finally somebody introduced him to her at the reception. They had won each other's heart in their first meeting itself. Angela was not only beautiful, but also quite talented; she was a violin virtuoso. She played Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik better than anyone in Sir Walter's symphony. On a cold winter night, her rendition of the song at her house in Vienna had left Walter spell-bound. That melody still lingers in Sir Walter's ears, and even when he stood at the podium directing his last symphony he could hear that melody coming to his ears from a distant land.

It was this melody that Sir Walter wanted to hear again for the last time. And so in spite of Henry requesting him to conduct Beethoven's Eroica, he chose Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik over it. To Henry, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik ("A night of Little Music") seemed to be too cheerful a composition to choose for the night, and he asked Walter, "Do you think it fits to the occasion?" Henry had asked, to which Sir Walter coldly replied, "And what is the 'occasion'? The last performance from a dying man needs to be less cheerful, is it?" Henry had remained silent in shame.

In the green meadows, a little boy would play the violin and his sister would sit beside him, listening to his music like an ardent fan. She too wanted to play the fiddle but she was no good at it. However she had loved her brother's music. That night as Sir Walter conducted on stage, the girl, now an old lady, sat in the audience beside her daughter, with tears in her eyes, as she listened to her brother conducting the symphony with the same delight and joy that she had felt as a child. She remained seated, still sobbing, while the entire auditorium stood up in ovation and the hall resounded with clapping from a thousand palms.

Conversation after a movie

I noticed his knitted brow, and could also discern the growing impatience and loath in his eyes, and I knew that he must be hating me for being so stoic. It was clear that he hadn't liked my reaction, and in all probability hadn't even expected me to differ from his opinion about the greatness of the movie. Usually I enjoy being hated, which, among other things, is an integral part of my quirky personality. I quickly remembered how a friend of mine in college had sung "You are looking into the eyes of the demon" while actually having the nerves to look straight in my eyes, which when I now come to think of, indeed seems to have been a pretty bold thing for him to do, for I must admit, though without remorse, that I had a rather notorious reputation as a stoic, unfriendly person. However I am not sure if that one line song, repeated with a rhythm, was created with me in mind, or whether it happened just like that. Somehow I had always felt that had I not been there, the song, though poor in its lyrics and melody, won't have had any meaning.

I had momentarily lost myself in the recollection of the incidents involving that song, and had quite forgotten that I was sitting at a coffee bar with another friend from college who was peering at me with disgust in his eyes, perhaps waiting for a clarification as to why I wasn't moved by the movie. Though I was enjoying the fury on his face that manifested itself mostly through his knitted brow, I decided, somewhat against my usual behavior, to actually give him an explanation as to why I wasn't impressed by the movie that had created such a sensation that the Government of India had gone to the extent of making it tax-free.

It's a movie about a dyslexic child called, Ishaan, whose parents don't appreciate his artistic talents and have difficulty in even recognizing his illness, let alone accepting it. However, in school, his Art teacher, Ram, played by a prominent Indian actor, recognized his talent and arranged for an art competition where Ishaan won the first prize and everyone soon got to recognize his talent. The storyline was novel, though simplistic, perhaps even naive at times, but the acting seemed to be flawless throughout. It was indeed an idealistic movie, and above all it has a noble message. My guess would be that people loved the movie because of it's underlying message. The Indian film critics, who are only used to writing rave reviews for stale melodramas that the aesthetically challenged Indian Film Industry churns out, were all loud and magnanimous in their praise.

"The point is...", I said, slurping down some more cappuccino, intentionally delaying my explanation to heighten his frustration and anger, and then continued, "... the point is that it indeed pains me to see that my fellow countrymen actually have to go to a movie to get this message into their heads...and worse of all, they come out of the theaters still with the idea that it was a good 'movie', and that it had a great 'message'."
He blinked, perhaps unable to decipher what I was trying to say.
I realized the need to explain a bit more, "Do you think that Ishaan is the only victim of the Indian psyche?"
Now I was stepping into even more dangerous waters, I had used the term "Indian psyche", that's derogatory to some patriots. Blind Nationalism can be dangerous, that's nothing new to say, Tagore had warned against it even before India became independent.

I could see that my friend hadn't taken my last sentence very well. Anger had returned to his eyes, and he was about to say something when I stopped him to complete my explanation, "I don't think that dyslexic children are the only ones who suffer and whose artistic talents don't get recognized by the society. It is the problem that every individual child faces in India. And that's because of the Indian psyche, where art comes only next to science, or more specifically Engineering and Medicine. We all want guarantees on financial security and prefer risk-free jobs, even if that comes at a cost of compromising with your true interests, and your happiness. As a matter of fact you may be expected to only believe that happiness lies in a white collar job, with a good pay and a family- a progeny, preferably a boy, to whom you should pass on the same beliefs, same fear, and stamp out any possibility of digression form the rest of the herd. Many of us, as parents, don't stop short of stamping out the last possibility for an alternative career, by citing the need for financial security, and That hinders the cognitive development of a child. The disease is in the Indian definition of a happy life; our society tends to define 'happiness' for all of us, which ironically should have meaning strictly in an individualistic context. "

I had said too much, and I am no one in a position to judge the masses, perhaps someone who has already attained some amount of security sounds hypocritical while commenting on the need to live in a higher, utopic world of perfect bliss that stands above all materialistic connotations of happiness. But my fear is that we are perhaps a very scared race; a race that is afraid of any kind of uncertainty; a race where only a few would dare to venture out of the accepted ways, and if anyone does dare to do that, then that person should struggle to swim against current and establish a reputation for himself. Else he would starve and suffer for flouting the social norm.
"..you know, the movie actually has one thing depicted very truthfully, but that was perhaps unintentional. Ishaan had to win a prize to get recognized for his talents. We need to win prizes to earn credibility, and to earn the right to be different while making choices."

My friend was silent for sometime, still trying to make sense of my last few sentences. I continued, "now about the movie, you see I don't like the way Indian movies try to sensationalize things...Ishaan didn't need to win the grand first prize, he didn't need to win any prize at all. That is the biggest problem- the movie seemed to reaffirm the notion that one's talent needs to get recognized through accolades. A dyslexic child need not be some sort of a maestro to earn his self respect. What even if he hadn't won, what should be done then? Should he be discarded as an unwanted element, a bane for the society? What kind of a society have we created for ourselves? The movie claimed as its motto that 'every child is special', and yes, I believe it, but I want others also to stress on the word 'every'. The movie seems to use the word 'every' as a means to stress on the inclusion of physically or mentally challenged children and it assumes that other 'normal' children have a happy life, and that's where they are wrong."

My friend was still unconvinced. He had been bowled over by the songs, I guess the silly song where the art teacher dresses up like a clown and appears before the class. I found myself wincing on remembering that ridiculous scene.

"Anyway, what's the point in discussing all this? All those parents who had come to see the movie with their children had hardly carried any message out of the theaters, they would have been thanking Almighty for sparing them the burden of a retarded kid while munching their mouthful of popcorn, and thereafter would be heading for the nearest restaurant to dine, and then recommend the movie to other relatives and office mates for its strong 'message'. And you and I would be fighting over here on the merits of the movie and its impact. Let's not ruin the day. Come on now, let's get going."
"I won't recommend any movie to you from now on. You just like to criticize Indian films," he said defiantly. I smiled. He had again got me wrong, but I shouldn't say that I was surprised even a bit, since it was surely not the first time that I had fallen out with him on the merits of a film- the last one, as far as i can recall, was RDB, a trash that masqueraded the screens as a 'value' movie aiming to titillate our national consciousness in the most misguided way one could ever come up with.

Return to Innocence

This is the very spot where a little boy of ten, on a break from school, would be sitting next to his mother in the late summer evenings, gazing at the Hoogly River and the boats that ferried people from one bank to the other. The boy would sometime sketch in his drawing book, while his mother would sit silently watching the trees, river and the birds as they appeared on the sheet in various shades of gray. After every hour a rumbling sound would come from the direction of the bridge, and it would grow louder by the seconds. The boy would jump up to his feet to look at the distant giant structure of steel and concrete that stood against the twilight sky with shining semi-circular arches. It resounded with the vibrations of the passing train which would linger on for some more time after the serpent had made its way across the river. And then the boy would eagerly wait for the candy peddler to arrive with his colorful assortment in glass jars. He would slowly cuddle up to his mother with a shy smile, and she would look into those sparkling innocent eyes, smile secretly, and with a seeming reluctance buy him a candy after adding a warning about tooth decay. They would sit on the bench, right next to the stairs that went down and disappeared under water. The stairs had always been an enigma to the boy. During high tide the river would slowly lap up the stairs, one by one, while at the time of ebb tide the river would seem to withdraw itself remorsefully, revealing more and more of that never-ending flight of stairs. Around seven, the local brewery’s daily discharge into the river would render an unpleasant smell to the moist breeze; it smelled like fermented jaggery, and so the boy and his mother would head for their home, a five minutes walk from the river bank.

That boy was me, some thirty years ago. After spending many years in a foreign country, today I have come back with the hope of reliving some of my childhood memories. But presently I find myself looking around desperately searching for something familiar, something that has survived the passage of time. The river seems to have shrunk, and the water is quite turbid. Our old house is gone; we had sold it off long ago when we shifted to the city of Calcutta, and now in its place stands some ugly high rise flats, with dingy ‘budget’ apartments especially designed for the middle class income group to afford. The quiet river bank that I had loved as a child seems to have lost its serenity; it is now the location for a bustling fish market. The old bridge with its semicircular arches has also been torn down and replaced with a suspension bridge to cater to the increased traffic. The boats have been replaced with streamers, and the staircases that had fascinated me as a child with its never-ending flight of stairs have now become a part of a ferry dock. Only the brewery is still there, and they seem to have increased their production as the air has the repulsive smell of fermented jaggery even during the day.

Sitting at Penn’s Landing in Philadelphia in the late summer evenings, I had often lost myself in the scenes from childhood that I have been carrying with me, and nurtured the secret desire to come back to visit this place. My ten year old daughter would notice me brooding over something and nudge me to play with her or tell her stories. She is good at inventing games. I guess all children are. She would sometimes chase the birds and tire out herself and then retire to watch the US battleships anchored on the opposite bank of the Delaware River. And when a commuter train bound for Camden would appear on the Ben Franklin Bridge, filling the air with a heavy rumble, she would jump up to catch a glimpse of it. And at these moments, I feel a surge of affection for my little daughter and I tell her stories of the bridge, the river, the candy seller, the stairs and the little boy and his mother.

I now hear my daughter coming from behind and I turn around.

“Papa, look there is a train on the bridge.”

A shiny serpent is slithering across the bridge. I now think my trip to relive my childhood memories hasn’t gone waste; I have finally found the joy that I came looking for, I am seeing it in her eyes.

“And here was the bench where your Grandma and I used to sit….and over there you can see the stairs I told you about, it goes real deep into the water…..and in place of this new bridge that you see now used to be a bridge with semi-circular arches…..”