'The guitar sings''

'Twang' came a sound from the midst of the pile of things, stuffed into the backseat of my Honda Amaze, as the car hit a pothole while shifting my house from 10th cross, Wilson Garden, Bangalore to 10th cross, RT nagar, Bangalore. It's only then that I consciously noticed its presence. This Framus guitar had been my guest for over ten years now. 

Having grown up spending most of my time on the sports field, it was no surprise that I did not even know to tune, let alone play the twenty thousand worth musical instrument that had majestically garnered dust in my living room for so many years. But, I was proud of it. It kindled several memories whenever it made its presence felt.

On a dry sunny afternoon, sometime in the mid 2000's, after a couple of Patiala Lassis and a hearty lunch of Amritsari style roti and butter chicken with three of my friends, did I decide to try my hand at music. 

Growing up in India during the 90s was an unusual feeling of being stuck between the desi style of classical melody and the fusion music like hip-hop soul, jazz and so on that was quickly gaining popularity in those days. There were several artists trying to merge the two, giving them a modern twist, while the rest drifted towards the more modern bollywood style music, that had a target audience and a popular fan base. Not being the one to be sandwiched between Kishore Kumar and Daler Mehandi, I decided to pick a page from my dad's book and diverted my attention towards sports. A wise one by all means.

On that fateful day, one of my three friends in that brightly lit, plushly furnished restuarant, had aced an audition in music composition and would not stop bragging about the prospects waiting for him in the future. My special butter chicken with extra makkan felt like a hara-bhara dried out Kabab against his musical prospects. I was almost on the verge of losing my appetite when he made a bold statement in the lines of it never was too late to start with music, ending with the tried and tested tagline, "Better late than never." That acted as the final nail in the coffin. Now I had to learn music. 

Adolescence is a time in everyone's life when the adrenaline rush and raw courage pushes a person into experiencing a lot of wild adventures without even a blink of second thought. It's said that the age is such that the person wishes to tame the mightiest of elephants to bow down to his whims and fancies. 

Considering the talent I felt I had at that time, "Its gonna be a piece of cake...", I thought. To the extent that, even before I held a musical instrument in my hand, I could envision myself playing next to the great A.R.Rahman in a musical concert in front of a packed, newly built Wembley stadium, with the legend patting my back everytime I struck a chord. Wow! Now, that was a sight.

The next step was to decide on the instrument I had to master, for which I forcefully dragged everyone to a shop nearby. By the time we stepped inside the glass spring door of the shop, we had already kicked a dog out of its royal afternoon nap, forced a bicycle rider onto the road to let the four of us walk majestically on the pavement and passed comments and remarks on every school kid standing at the bus stop, waiting for the route bus number 69. Once inside shop with posh interiors and musical instruments lined perfectly one behind the other, I started staring at all the instruments in front on me with the same expression as a child in front of a candy store. It was on that day that I learned something about myself. 'I had a problem with choice.' 

Everytime I was faced with the difficult decision of choosing from a range of options, my performance would ritualistically drop below the qualification mark. It would resemble a penalty shot gone so horribly wrong that the ball soars above the goal post to hit the second tier of the stadium or a lofted extra cover shot so awkwardly played, that the bat slips from the batsman's hand to end up flying toward the close in fielder instead of the ball ending up outside the boundary.My MCQ paper in science was another glaring proof of my sub-par proficiency in choice based scenarios. Such was my efficiency at chalking out a plan to tackle them that, when I was given full autonomy of choosing a career course after my 12th boards, being the smart ass I thought I was, I wrote all the entrance examinations available at that time thinking that it was the best way to eliminate the unwanted choices. Hardly, did I consider the possibility of clearing at least a few of them, thus, sinking deeper into my self dug grave.

With such an illustrious history and deep understanding of my personality, I decided to do what I did best in such situations, 'Pick up the first and easily available instrument I could lay my hands on'. It was a 'German made Framus guitar.' The salesman emphasised on its German make one too many times, considering the length of our conversation. I smiled back at him unwilling to reveal my Achilles heel in music.

My friends went all nuts with my choice. It was an unexpectedly expensive deal for a guy who didn't even understand the basics of music. Now that I had picked it up, I didn't have a choice but to pay up 20 grand for it, a deal I live to regret.

With the guitar majestically hanging from my back and a bunch of over enthusiastic friends in tow, I felt like Ranbir Kapoor from Rockstar as I zoomed past a red Skoda Octavia in the busy streets of Mangalore. The speed of my bike was no match for the speed at which my trail of thoughts were racing. By the time we reach the gates of 'Geet School for Music', my imaginatory, extremely passionate musical soul had already performed with the talented trio of Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy, dynamic duo of Vishal-Shekar and was considering a show with the numero uno 'King of Pop', Michael Jackson. My mind was going all in with, "So beat it, just beat it..." 

My first step into the music school felt like the arrival of the prodigal son to the doorsteps of destiny with the temple bells ringing uncontrollably with fragrant flowers being showered by beautiful damsels from the floor above, classic Bollywood style. 

After the initial talks, a medium built, fair skinned instructer of the school walked towards me with a form in his right hand, stood right in front of me and asked for a demo as to assess my knowledge in music. With my imagination in full swing, my confidence was boosted up several notches. My weapon of choice, my German made Framus guitar, magically slipped from my back towards my left hand, firmly settling in its grip. The black guitar case unzipped itself allowing me to adjust my grip on the guitar.  My fingers ran over the finely tuned strings to finally start the encaptivating performance that, I felt, the whole school was waiting for. I sat crossed, adjusted the guitar in my lap, steadied my breath and with the confidence of a seasoned, veteran performer, strummed the strings with my fingers, only for my index finger to get hooked to the first string.

'Twang' came the sound.

"Hmmm..." The instructor smiled as he ticked the box in front of 'Basic' on the admission form. 

My musical dream started developing cracks that very second. My imaginatory Wembley stadium had started crumbling under the weight of the shame and awkwardness I was experiencing. A couple of days into the lessons and it had completed collapsed under the awareness of my inability to understand the nuances of the art form. It was delicate, soft and artistic. A complete contrast to my other pursuits. I felt like a boxer standing in a ring, all geared up for a fight but training to learn the art of stiching with a needle. My presence in the class was as unmatched as a decorated army officer all set to go to war with his gun suddenly finding himself learning the art of ploughing in the field with it.

My ego had taken a hit. I sensed my confidence level dropping from Hollywood to Bollywood on the first day and from Bollywood to Sandalwood on the second. By the third, it was beyond recognition. Though the other two non musicians of our quartet, tried to boost it by attending the class with me, the only realisation they managed was to understand how bad they were at music. 

Finally, with a 20 grand deep hole in my pocket and the drooped shoulders of my disappointed friends, I returned to where I belonged, the sports field, doing what I loved doing, competing as hard as anyone, for the time I spent there.

Every now and then, the guitar reminds me of not straying too far from what I am, stops me from building too big a castle in the air without laying a single brick in reality and reassures me of hope.

Though I never unzipped the guitar case after that incident, the 'Twang' never left me alone again!