Tablist’s tale
The tablist died, the writer keyed it in his blackberry notepad. But
he changed his thoughts later. He deleted ‘died’ and replaced it with
‘passed away’.
The tablist passed away.
And the writer could not think of anything beyond that. He was still
in the tablist’s funeral, standing closer to the coffin. It was a
funeral attended by all the artistes in the country. The president,
himself an artiste, came too and paid the last tribute to this
small-made man.
The crowd spoke in murmur. That made silence die away. In all honesty
most artistes missed the tablist.
“He played tabla free for me at times whenever I was broke. I will
never forget that.”
“He was always smiling. I remember his face when I see him pluck
flowers every morning.”
“His sorrow touched our hearts.”
“His joy softened us.”
“He lives with us.”
“We cherish the memory of him.”
Is it cacophony, the writer mused. No it was a large orchestra with
all voices and whispers blending in harmony. Unlike any other artiste,
the tablist deserved such praise, the writer knew. He knew the tablist
as a neighbour since his childhood.
 The writer looked at the tablist’s face. Even with the lips sewn, the
smile was still there. The tablist always welcomed him as a child with a
warm smile. It was that smile, which was still there in the closed
mouth.
Walking down alone in the town, the tablist would spot the young
writer. He brings his newly-purchased Prius Hybrid to a halt, and makes
the shutters slide down. The front passage door opens next. They would
occupy themselves in some pleasant talk, while the tablist focuses on
the road that lay ahead. As minutes slowly wither away, the writer
remembers he has to key something in the blackberry. He is used to
writing amid the noise. But now his mind is empty. He could not think of
anything beyond the first sentence.
That’s when he heard the sound. They all heard it, something they
have never heard before. It was a rhythmic tabla sound.
Everybody turned around to trace the sound. The writer too turned. To
their surprise they found the tablist on the coffin with an aurora. His
hands were overly skilful handling the tabla. It was actually hearing to
sore ears. One by one, everyone turned to see the coffin. The corpse was
gone. It was an angel they could see seated, illuming the surrounding.
In his face were the faint traces of a bygone glory. The piece was much
more beautiful than what he played when he was alive. Noticing
everyone’s attention on it, the angel started speaking.
“Look, you have no reason to weep at my death. I’m now better off
here. I wanted to say good bye, but before that I've got to say
something.
“In the times before haven’t I often said these things to you?
Remember you laughed at me, and I laughed with you. I don’t mean to
sound rude, but I always believed an artiste must have discipline and
virtue. That was the only way for happiness. But you were showing one
face to the world and privately you were someone else.
“I’m now reborn as a deity musician. I can play the tabla better than
I used to. You know, that is because I dedicated myself to the art. I
never killed. I never stole. I was always faithful to my family. I never
cheated. I never took alcohol, because I was already intoxicated with
the art. I always respected it. How many of you can actually say aloud
you are honest to your art?
“Do not mourn my death. Don’t worry about me. I’m much finer than all
of you. Look after yourself.”
Saying so, the angel vanished into air. Before leaving the funeral,
the writer took one more backward glance. The tablist’s wife and
children were staring into the empty coffin. The visitors were leaving
the place one by one.
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