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Writer's pictureAmruta

Metro shorts - 8


A hot day, and I’m late. I rush into the metro, lean against its cool metal poles and tap my feet impatiently to the music in my ears. Just before the doors close, a hunched older man with an unpleasant face and a red accordion saddles in. The high-pitched beeps signalling the departure of the train sound. I roll my eyes, take a deep breath and prepare myself for the musical onslaught that will ruin my own listening experience.


Sure enough, the train begins to gather speed, and the accordion’s notes slip through the veil of my music. The busker is not playing very loudly – this has the surprising effect of not interfering with my playlist despite the two being from completely different genres. He is standing close enough for me to have adopted the usual I’m-pretending-not-to-listen-so-you-won’t-ask-me-for-money stance. But I’m intrigued, so I discreetly lower the volume on my phone, and raise my head to look at him.


His face is painfully blank. He plays with no passion, only resignation. There is something in the practised fingerwork that yields music with a delicate flavour. He falters over some notes, and is far from the expert showmanship of more gifted musicians, but exudes a kind of resigned familiarity with these tunes.


A woman gets up, I take her seat. I can now turn my music off and observe him from afar. He’s playing the classics of chanson française mechanically, almost listlessly. Yet I can discern his lips move, mouthing the notes below his breath. There is emotion there, buried under years and years of being ignored, of playing the same airs to the same indifferent people. The furrows on his brow have deepened, his face is marked with lines, and he looks like he has forgotten how to smile.


My observation of the man has distracted me from the songs he’s playing. I am jolted from my musings by the combination of notes I recognize to form Que sera sera. My mother’s face flashes in my mind’s eye, doing up my school uniform or stroking my head to lull me to sleep. The calming pat of her hands, her melodious voice caressing the notes and words…


When I was just a little girl I asked my mother, what will I be Will I be pretty, will I be rich Here’s what she said to me. Que sera sera Whatever will be, will be The future’s not ours to see Que sera sera


…I only now grasp the philosophical import of a song I associated with reassurance. I only now see a mother warning her daughter not to get ahead of life and its vagaries. I feel a sharp twinge: I miss her. She is too far away for a hug, too far away to thank, too far away to tell her that I now understand.


The man has finished his set. He looks around for people who might want to give him a coin or two. Nobody cares for his lacklustre playing. He knows.


I nod my head at him, give him 50 cents from my wallet, look into his eyes and say “Merci, Monsieur”. I want to tell him what I am thanking him for. I want to tell him 50 cents is nothing compared to what he has given me on this one train ride so far from home. I want to tell him that his music is not in vain, however unjust the world might seem.


But he has already stepped out onto the platform. As the train rolls into motion, I watch him drag his hand across the windows looking at all the people inside who didn’t give him a penny.

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