Those were Sunday morning I never thought I'd fondly recall. I was 9. Wake up in the morning. Tensed and terrified about unfinished piano lessons and the looming fear of scoldings of a balding teacher. Sunday morning cartoons and loochi aloor torkari were a luxury I wished I could afford. The bus journeys with the father to Deodar Street on Ballygunj Circular Road...walking past the huge Deodar Mansions (a housing complex stands in its place now), past the narrow lane of phuchkawallahs drying phuchkas in the sun in wicker baskets...to the house of the piano teacher. He had an upright piano. I would have to wait in queue for my turn while other students played and got scolded in the rightful order and sometimes in conjunction. When my turn would come, I would play the previous day's lessons carefully (and fearfully) until the teacher would give me my new sheet of music- the lesson for the next day. Somewhere along on those dreaded Sunday mornings of my childhood I had loved the piano. Touching a piano still gives me goosebumps. A piano is not an instrument for me. It is my entire childhood (and teenage) longings crumpled together. Something that I have wanted to have for most of my life always half knowing I could possibly not afford to. Or do justice to.
And if things go right, tomorrow, I will have a Grand Piano. Yes. The one with a wooden shade and all. I am not quite in a position to talk about it.