A Corridor of tunes. and Peanuts.

“Paul babu has pianos. Many pianos.”

no-one seemed interested in what the piano player wants. Of prefers to play. Or where. But they are clear about what they want to hear.

Thus this information was shared. And passed. From A to B, verbally. Then via the phone to C. then some more. Numbers were sent, with pleas and earnest words of caution to act in haste. Till the Mother was roped into this mad hunt too.

She took a Saturday afternoon off, and promised me she would go on a jaunt. For a loaf. (Something that only my mother and my aunt can do, but the act of a jaunt is a different story.)

Saturday afternoon. A stop at a Yamaha showroom. The Anglo para . A walk. A tram ride. Conversations with booksellers, bakers, and nuns in different languages. An orange shared. A minute where I got tired. A moment where my mother came close to slapping me, I was being such a brat. A peace offering of a bottle of Coke. Shared. And then she started. Call the “Paul Babu”. Repeat. Repeat. I started to walk ahead. Repeat.

but it was my turn to make peace. So I called this Paul Babu gentleman. Who spoke flawless, though heavily accented English. Gave me directions. Was out of town. But mentioned that “Kali Babu would be there”. And gave me ten minute long directions, but no address.

It took me and the mother another 10 minute tram ride. Past Muslim “eating houses” in blue and white mini tiled holes. And “Robesons coffee and cutter”, the only place in the whole COUNTRY where, when once in school uniform, I had had foreign coffee ground and poured in a cup. Black. And this shop is a panwala size window lost in a Rubik’s square of bike shops and helmet factories.

And just when I was about to call Paul Babu again to report that I was wonderfully lost, I heard his shop. A long corridor. Not even a step off the pavement. A thoroughly bangali bhodromohila was playing a lively little tune. The glass doors were as grey as the cement of the building. The grey of age, not dirt. A four feet ten little guy stood at the door, eating muri out of a thownga (paper packet). And another young chap hovered, as I gathered after a bit. This was Paul Babus son.
Paul Babu’s Shop, or rather this Corridor, was in the business of repairing and renting pianos. The corridor was a glass door off the pavement. There were about a dozen pianos, of every size and shape lined on both walls of the corridor, and piano stools for who wanted to sit. There were no shelves, no cupboards, no chairs, no curtains, no furniture or furnishing of any other kind.

The corridor was lined with pianos. A Rachaels. A Kriebel. A Blüthner. A Hobbs. This was the Hobbs that we had once owned. I knew the wood, the ridges on the legs, as I used to dust them. The stand still sat crooked to one side. The cover would not sit straight. The mother recognized it right away, despite the cherry brown polished new look. The sound was a dead give away and she needed no proof. I of course, checked out the felts on the hammer heads , and the number on the sound board etc before I concurred.

The bhodromohila wore a stiff sharee, wound around her not too tightly. , and sat with her back straight. Her hair was bunned back, just a little less neater that it was in morning. It was odd to see her there. She played with a purpose, obviously not testing a piano. She played with flair, definitely not a novice. She played with a little short of confidence; given her age, either out of practice, or still a student. Turned out she was a music teacher at some school in the neighborhood. She lived far, had a piano at home , was doing her grade 6… the combination gave her less time that needed to practice at home. Thus she would come to this shop to practice as and when she wanted or could spare the time. She sat at our Hobbs. I sat at the other wall. At a Kriebel. Poised to play. Waiting for a chance , the first note would be only at her last.

I looked around me.

Kali Babu was a most nondescript Bengali, aging, not aged yet, man. His shirt hung loose on his frame, and his quo vadis chappals, the first pair I had seen being worn in 2 decades, were neat, warmly worn, but not torn. His glasses sat high on his nose, through which lively eyes took in everything and everyone about him. The huge frames made his face look smallish. He had this habit, as I was to gather, of saying everything twice.

Paul Babu’s son had disappeared into the other end of the corridor. I could see the end, a desk, and a tube light. But between the entrance, my end of the corridor, and his neon lit end; it was dark. Odd shapes of boxes and curves or pianos emerged from and merged back into shadows.

The Mother lost herself somewhere is that Corridor, too.

Kali Babu, hand-to-mouth action from the thonga continuing, asked me if I was a pianist. I nodded. He copied my action. Casually, “what Grade?” He could have been telling me “it is hot (full stop)”. Or something.

I answerwd.
.
The guy grinned. Took two half steps forward. Came closer to the piano stool I was perched on, the wrong way round. Revered. Adored. Respected. Inquired about teacher and college. Obviously the guy was savvy about the western classical music training scenario in the city, even though first appearances would not indicate that this would fall into his set of exposure, awareness or experiences.

The woman continued to play. Lively sprightly tunes. Oblivious to two new people in the shop corridor. Oblivious to the conversation that was taking place. She stopped when her phone buzzed.

That was my cue. I began. I touched the keys of the Kriebel . Tested the tone. The timbre. Looked for the few odd,off keys. Played a chord. Found a scale. And began on the Claire de Lune. A complete change from the stuff the lady was playing.

Kali Babu , evidently was used to very good pianists, and absolute gawaars. He was not super impressed with my playing, but noted my introduction to the piano. And when I started, he said a gentle, but audible “Bah, bah !!” In between a hand-to-mouth motions. I wish I knew to what. And I wish I knew why he kept grinning. Hand-to-mouth to and from thonga continued.

While I played, a man had strayed in, and stood ignored at the door of the corridor. He was a regular, another nondescript Bengali middle class, office going guy. Pinkish shirt. Carried a folded red plastic packet like there was a file in it. He had smallish eyes, neat appearances, and pleasant face. After a minute of loitering at the door, he remarked to a wall or a piano stool, uninvited and ignored, “shuunchhi.” (listening.)

Kali Babu, with a welcome in his voice…”hyaan hyaaan.” ( yes yes). “Shunoon shunoon.” ( listen listen)

And the conversation went: These are pianos. (Stating the obvious).
Kali Babu: “yes yes.” (Looked around him with pride and hope and far away dreams, like he has built a nursery to nurture little children in).
The Other Man: “Are these ladies related?” (Me and the other woman, still on the phone.) (why would he think that?)
“No, no.”
“AAAh. So they learn?”
Kali Babu: “ Yes yes. She is still learning (gesturing to the bong woman), and she…. She is all pass.” this last with a flourish and a wave of the hand.

The Other Man, a little baffled : “All pass? From where?”
Kali Babu , with the air of a man who has been around the world in 80 days : “Grade Eight. Trinity College of Music.” And then sternly: “aapni chey nen? Jaanen aapni?” ( do you know?)

The Other Man, pat came the reply: “Of course!! Amartya Sen studied his economics there.” (As I played, I raised an eyebrow).

Kali Babu: “No no. He studied in Kings College. But, …” a little vaguely and a little distantly, “Trinity College is within Kings College University. The campuses are not very far off from each other.” ( this was getting better).

The gentleman with the red packet says… ”Aaah.” Enlightenment appeared to have dawned on the both of them. They stood silent and heard me play.

The Other Man: “Eight grade ta ki?” ( what is eight grade?)

Kali babu : “Eight grade no. grade eight.” (Repeat). “Means all pass.” (Repeat).

Here the lady finished her conversation, and was waiting for me to stop, that she would resume with her tinkering. I was just a loafer, so I allowed her her right of way. Turned to the two gentlemen, as the woman set a book of exercises, and started playing full octave scales.

The Other Guy looked at me. “Just shuunchchi. I have heard such tunes only on tapes. I don’t know much, but its very nice to hear.” I nodded, taking in more details.

Saying this, he pulls out of his “book pocket”, (what a Bengali calls his shirt pocket, some derivative of the breast pocket??) a tiny packet of cheeney badaam (peanuts). The ones that are sold on the bus for 2 rupees. And he stood next to Kali Babu, happy in copying the the hand-to- mouth motion.

I nodded. Smiled at all this. Too tired by the unreal-ness by now, and the other lady played her turn of the jugalbandhi. Allowing these two simple souls the simple pleasure of piano tunes on this Saturday afternoon. Allowing myself to walk through the corridor, feeling wood, discovering stuck keys, cracked sound boards, worn felt against the timbre of a German and the mellowness of an English.

Half way in the corridor. Somewhere towards the neonlit end was the Mother, her much clutched-at bag of oranges sat obedient, and forgotten on some piano. The Son was doing god knows what, sitting on another piano stool at his desk.
At the other end of the tunneled darkness, in the afternoon light of the street, two men stood side by side just off the pavement , and in their hand-to-mouth existence, listened to scales being practiced. With their stance and attitude, they could have admiring a street painter at work in Paris, but muri and cheeney badam gave them this just this much, this Saturday afternoon.