This is a short story. I’m looking for some honest feedback.
The Maestro – I
50-year-old piano seemed to fill the small room with its enormity. A
violin lay in a corner as if condemned to obscurity by its more
conspicuous cousin. A single bed with clothes strewn all over it
cramped the remainder of the room. Amidst the clothes lay some sheets
of music, notes neatly transcribed around the ledger lines. Music,
which he had composed in the wee hours of the previous day, for his
performance at the city’s concert hall, adorned those pages, and now
sprang into life as he practiced the piece.
He went through his scales rigorously, playing them with immaculate
precision, at the unearthly hour when the city was asleep, yet anxious
in anticipation to watch the genius perform at the theatre the next
“Tut Tut”, he muttered suddenly, bringing an abrupt halt to the melody
he was playing. Nodding his head he picked up the sheet that lay on his
desk, scribbled over a section and started playing the same tune again.
But this time it swiftly raced on to a faster beat, as if he
were energized by the small break he had taken.
It had been hard work, even for the genius that he was. Nights spent
over the piano with only a coffee mug for company, would have left any
mortal bleary-eyed and sapped of any strain of energy he possessed. Yet
now the musician’s face radiated with a glow that was distinctly
anachronous at that wee hour. It was the glow induced by a passion that
he had pursued relentlessly, whose fruit he now bore with his skills
reaching their consummate prowess, to be showcased in his hometown for
the very first time.
When he was done playing, the city arose from its slumber, schoolboys
on bicycles hurled newspapers at doorsteps that had just opened to let
in the morning winter rays. As people across the town geared up for
another day, the pianist satisfied with a day’s work, piled his sheets
on his desk, and went to sleep.