A recording studio. A large microphone. A woman. Eyes shut. Sound resonates. The vibrating air sets off an astonishing contraption of electrons, culminating in a small needle bobbing up and down. A Tune is born.
A radio is turned on. A knob is turned back and forth till the grains are no more. The chaiwallah, pouring out his tea begins a low hum. The song is reaching its end. Once the next song begins, the chaiwallah will probably forget this Tune and begin to hum the next. A schoolboy walks past, looking in fascination as the chaiwallah expertly raises one cup seemingly miles above his head and the milk falls in a column, rapidly narrowing towards the bottom until it seems to him that there is just one point to which every drop of milk converges. Just before ‘splash!’, a collision. Little drops fly about, hit the walls of the cup, and even as they slide down, the lower cup is raised and the upper cup brought down. A fascinating cycle.
A scooter honks behind him. His jaw jams shut as he breaks out of his reverie.
A history class. Sound that has long lost all meaning continues to perturb the air for no apparent reason. A notebook’s last pages. Sketches. Scribbles. A pencil with a broken lead is set down. Ears have long shut down. The mind searches to fill the emptiness in his head. Eyes looking in the direction of the blurring blackboard glaze over, as the Tune stirs, shakes off its sleep, and dances around inside his head, pushing everything outside into a hazy background.
A woman is doing the dishes. She knows her son is at the street corner when she hears him whistling. Wet hands are held up so that they don’t drip on the floor. She moves into the hall, just in time to see him arrive. She welcomes him with a smile. Seems fine. Has not gotten into a fight today. He produces a grade card from school and hands it to her. He gives her a hug, even as she inspects his grades. Pleased, she wipes her hands dry on her sari and ruffles his hair before he throws away his shoes and socks in a flash and takes off to his evening tennis ball cricket, still whistling the same Tune.
A desk. Papers everywhere. Tired, the man sets his glasses down on the table and leans back in his chair. A breeze is pushing the door open and shut, over and over again. His wife’s kitchen hum squeezes in through the gap and joins the aroma of potatoes frying, alternately loud and faint. His head falls back, his eyelids shut. He adores her voice but she doesn’t sing when he asks her to. She nears the crescendo and promptly shifts into a lower octave as her voice gets squeaky. He smiles to himself. The Tune has opened a new door and found a new home. Soon his mouth is open, the wind has managed to move the paperweight, and his papers are flying about everywhere.
Note: I’m so taken with the wordle tags clouds that they are going to be my thing for a while.
One more note: I’m not very sure this piece works. It’s an experiment, so get back to me if you like it. Or even if you don’t!