My first guitar was an ancient dusty wooden box which I discovered underneath the bed, I think it belonged to mom many years ago. I had not heard of pearl jam then, and thus the fact that it was a Hawaiian Steal guitar wasn’t of much consequence to me. Little did I know, that my future as a metal-head was almost severely jeopardized. I was sent off to the local guitar maestro, who taught me more about the English language and eccentricity than I would care to write about. He also taught me to play a Bengali song (which I do not remember). Playing my first guitar could only be described as painful and being instructed by the man even more so.
My second guitar was a work of inspired labor. It was as if the luthier had decided to make a chair and halfway through changed his mind and made a guitar instead. His inspired work cost my dad a whopping hundred and fifty rupees and cost me bruised fingers for several months until my mother came to my rescue. The guitar’s fret board was almost an inch below the strings, and was an excellent example of warping and bad intonation. But there was indeed something very special about this guitar. It was a Spanish style acoustic. I don’t remember whether it was my insistence or the fact that it was the cheapest guitar available which swayed my father’s decision in its favor. I like to believe it was my insistence, contrary to everything I know about my father. My teacher however, insisted that this was a honest-to-god Hawaiian and continued my instruction for the same. He didn’t have much of a choice as he did not know anything about Spanish guitars. But since the guitar was so poorly constructed, it did serve as a decent hawaiian.
One day, I came back home from school to find the guitar smashed. I held up my close friend in its death woes, and slowly watched it die. I was angry, I wanted to know who had done this. I discovered that my mother driven to another mad rage by my father had gone on a rampage, and my guitar had fallen victim to her pent-up frustrations. I was furious with my mother, but in retrospect I thank her for it.
My father promptly dispatched us to the guitar-shop where he had bought the guitar to get them to repair it. The luthier laughed and said something about firewood. Thus began my guitar deprived months. My father promised to buy me a nice guitar, and I waited excitedly, and then waited some more. The puja season came and I was given money by all my relatives. I had been saving and had not spent the money I had received last puja either. The total was now at Rs. 1200 and I gave this money to mom for safe-keeping. I still waited for the guitar. Then one day my dad came home with a nice acoustic jumbo. It was the most beautiful thing I had heard. The smell of fresh wood and the sound of new strings marked the beginning of a long love-affair. I never saw my money again. So I came to the conclusion that I had paid for my own guitar. She lasted me almost eight years and still lies at home – old and neglected.
A few years later, my family and I went to a music store in New York. And there were these electronic keyboards on display. I gazed at them with admiration. I wondered at what music could come of these black and white keys. Infinite possibilities loomed. I was distracted by loud voices in the store, and recognized one to be my father’s. He was complaining about something, and the clerk was trying to tell him that he wasn’t finished with the last customer. The fact that my father waited for a while as the clerk finished with the last customer equated to racial profiling to my father and he made his displeasure known clearly. He kept saying he was a diplomat, which I found embarrassing and amusing at the same time. The clerk told him that he wasn’t behaving like one. So my father countered by saying that he could buy the whole shop if he wanted to. And my mom pitched in to defend him, and said, he would buy anything for his son. After we were told to leave, my mom explained to me that my father meant well, and would indeed buy me a keyboard, because I had such potential. My father also told me all about how these white people don’t like catering to us brown people. I was very excited at the thought of learning the keyboards and I waited for my mother to make good on her promises. I was fourteen and today I am twenty-five, I have never owned a keyboard and I stopped waiting a long time ago.
My second guitar was a work of inspired labor. It was as if the luthier had decided to make a chair and halfway through changed his mind and made a guitar instead. His inspired work cost my dad a whopping hundred and fifty rupees and cost me bruised fingers for several months until my mother came to my rescue. The guitar’s fret board was almost an inch below the strings, and was an excellent example of warping and bad intonation. But there was indeed something very special about this guitar. It was a Spanish style acoustic. I don’t remember whether it was my insistence or the fact that it was the cheapest guitar available which swayed my father’s decision in its favor. I like to believe it was my insistence, contrary to everything I know about my father. My teacher however, insisted that this was a honest-to-god Hawaiian and continued my instruction for the same. He didn’t have much of a choice as he did not know anything about Spanish guitars. But since the guitar was so poorly constructed, it did serve as a decent hawaiian.
One day, I came back home from school to find the guitar smashed. I held up my close friend in its death woes, and slowly watched it die. I was angry, I wanted to know who had done this. I discovered that my mother driven to another mad rage by my father had gone on a rampage, and my guitar had fallen victim to her pent-up frustrations. I was furious with my mother, but in retrospect I thank her for it.
My father promptly dispatched us to the guitar-shop where he had bought the guitar to get them to repair it. The luthier laughed and said something about firewood. Thus began my guitar deprived months. My father promised to buy me a nice guitar, and I waited excitedly, and then waited some more. The puja season came and I was given money by all my relatives. I had been saving and had not spent the money I had received last puja either. The total was now at Rs. 1200 and I gave this money to mom for safe-keeping. I still waited for the guitar. Then one day my dad came home with a nice acoustic jumbo. It was the most beautiful thing I had heard. The smell of fresh wood and the sound of new strings marked the beginning of a long love-affair. I never saw my money again. So I came to the conclusion that I had paid for my own guitar. She lasted me almost eight years and still lies at home – old and neglected.
A few years later, my family and I went to a music store in New York. And there were these electronic keyboards on display. I gazed at them with admiration. I wondered at what music could come of these black and white keys. Infinite possibilities loomed. I was distracted by loud voices in the store, and recognized one to be my father’s. He was complaining about something, and the clerk was trying to tell him that he wasn’t finished with the last customer. The fact that my father waited for a while as the clerk finished with the last customer equated to racial profiling to my father and he made his displeasure known clearly. He kept saying he was a diplomat, which I found embarrassing and amusing at the same time. The clerk told him that he wasn’t behaving like one. So my father countered by saying that he could buy the whole shop if he wanted to. And my mom pitched in to defend him, and said, he would buy anything for his son. After we were told to leave, my mom explained to me that my father meant well, and would indeed buy me a keyboard, because I had such potential. My father also told me all about how these white people don’t like catering to us brown people. I was very excited at the thought of learning the keyboards and I waited for my mother to make good on her promises. I was fourteen and today I am twenty-five, I have never owned a keyboard and I stopped waiting a long time ago.
