World Music Day

At Pen: Diya Basu

Team Atverts wishes everyone a very happy World Music Day! Always dance to only your tunes ‘cause no one can create the music of your life other than you!

||On World Music Day||

“Beyond this world of chaos and silence,

There is garden ,

I will meet you there."

The miniature congreve clock on the makeshift nightstand stands as an omnipresent reminder, of the infinitesimal seconds slowly ticking away into oblivion, on the arms of a streamline, slipping away into nothingness never to return again. He sits poised, with his fingers lightly resting on the keys of the pianoforte, head bowed, his breath coming in shorts spasms. His eyes closed, and beads of sweat dots his brow. This was it. It was time to feel again. To open his heart again, teach it to feel again, all that it had not. Pain , anger,sorrow, Loss, LOVE. Of all the emotions he had kept locked away for so long, for all the vitriol he had forced away for so long.....he welcomes it now. He cherishes it, cradles it in his heart in an embrace so pure, just like a mother cradling her baby close to her bosom, breathing in the scent of her child, so very tangible and heavenly.

And finally at long last, his fingers strikes the keys in a clear note, resonating all around the morning room,

A proclamation. A cry. Of speaking out. Standing up. A beacon of an impending revolution

His breath comes in laboured gasps as his fingers fly over the keys in a chaotic frenzy.... his fingers ache with overexertion but he doesn't care. He soars on the wings of emotions he had kept locked away for so,so very long now......he feels. Finally,oh gosh, finally he feels. And he let's out that storm, that hurricane that churns within and the notes , clear as crystal emerge from the pianoforte, cries out his agony, his pain,his loss, his love. He loses himself in this divine cacophony of thoughts. In his midst eye, he is a maestro , weaving his arms in the air while hundreds of arms move in tandem with his instructions, creating a divine harmony. They are knights of the new age. Rising from the ashes like a phoenix, they dance to the throes of insurrection, they sing the song of freedom. Finally the orchestra reaches a crescendo and the hurricane that raged inside reaches its breaking point, and they shatter like the most fragile glass, coursing through his veins like a heady elixir, flooding, heady and potent, and he is swept by the winds of ecstasy.

C'EST fait. It is done. After the storm, calm reigns with the promise of a rainbow. His fingers still over the keys. He let's out a long sigh. It was ready. His masterpiece. But for now, he shall rest, withdraw into that hard shell he crafted for himself, to hide himself away from the world. For what's remaining of tonight, he shall sing the song he has sang for his entire life. A song of melancholy. Of not feeling anymore. A song of silence.

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