The Lesson Part 1
It is an almost boring, normal day. The sun blazes down royally, relentlessly and unforgiving. As I step out of the car, the familiar wafts of jasmine and frangipani fill my olfactories. Still in office attire, I moved quickly to remove the coffin from my car.
The coffin. I hate that. They would go, "Oh, is there a dead body inside?" or "Whose coffin is this?!". Funny the first time, but not the thirty-fifth. Are we so boring that we all tell or come up with the same jokes? Maybe people really hate me here and are quick to drive me insane. Fine, scratch my car, but don't kick the instrument. You've got fours eyes and you don't need six.
I made a dash across Clive street, from the blistering sunlight into shelter, at all times trying unsuccessfully in protecting my face. Bah. An over-reaction yes, but what is a vain boy to do. Something is wrong when you cross a street and are reminded of your brecent blemishes, overeating over the holidays and other slothful activities. Not to mention the horrific 'Aunt Maggie Mae' visions. Humidity and heat are to blame for all our collective predicaments. Perhaps I do need to check myself in.
Guru's shop is a simple shop. In true artist fashion, it really is a mess. Art is created here. CDs cling to the left wall which lead to more stands outside. And the rest of the shop is just stuffed full of instruments. The next area is where Guru spends his time, practising, teaching and more, all on lovely Persian carpets. Books, microphones, stereos, the cash register, tablas, shennais, flutes and other instrument paraphenalia, and not forgetting the occasional student, all jostle for space in this quarter. I sneek a peek when Guru isn't watching, trying to see what is in the next room. I see more instruments but it is too dark to make out anything else.
There is a sense that travelling is not mighty good for the Sarod. Every movement from home requires extensive tuning. And the weather doesn't help. But I like this process, it is my warmup. Pity there's Guru doesn't turn on the sruti box or whips out a tambura. I still struggle to sit crosslegged on the floor, disliking the feeling of the onset of pins and needles. But the harmonious zings from my lute quickly calm my nerves. I am ready to begin.
----
The coffin. I hate that. They would go, "Oh, is there a dead body inside?" or "Whose coffin is this?!". Funny the first time, but not the thirty-fifth. Are we so boring that we all tell or come up with the same jokes? Maybe people really hate me here and are quick to drive me insane. Fine, scratch my car, but don't kick the instrument. You've got fours eyes and you don't need six.
I made a dash across Clive street, from the blistering sunlight into shelter, at all times trying unsuccessfully in protecting my face. Bah. An over-reaction yes, but what is a vain boy to do. Something is wrong when you cross a street and are reminded of your brecent blemishes, overeating over the holidays and other slothful activities. Not to mention the horrific 'Aunt Maggie Mae' visions. Humidity and heat are to blame for all our collective predicaments. Perhaps I do need to check myself in.
Guru's shop is a simple shop. In true artist fashion, it really is a mess. Art is created here. CDs cling to the left wall which lead to more stands outside. And the rest of the shop is just stuffed full of instruments. The next area is where Guru spends his time, practising, teaching and more, all on lovely Persian carpets. Books, microphones, stereos, the cash register, tablas, shennais, flutes and other instrument paraphenalia, and not forgetting the occasional student, all jostle for space in this quarter. I sneek a peek when Guru isn't watching, trying to see what is in the next room. I see more instruments but it is too dark to make out anything else.
There is a sense that travelling is not mighty good for the Sarod. Every movement from home requires extensive tuning. And the weather doesn't help. But I like this process, it is my warmup. Pity there's Guru doesn't turn on the sruti box or whips out a tambura. I still struggle to sit crosslegged on the floor, disliking the feeling of the onset of pins and needles. But the harmonious zings from my lute quickly calm my nerves. I am ready to begin.
----