Bygone Rockstar

"Hey, Dad! It's raining really hard, and the school's closed today! Can you take the day off too?"

And somehow, that simple little question from his son answered it too. He made a few calls, while the rain drummed away rhythmically on the window pane. He could feel his fingers drumming on the phone as well, along with the rain. He could feel a song coming to him, he could feel his heart forming the words, as the phone rang in his ears and the raindrops drummed on the windowpane. The first rain of the season, it had a special innocence about it – as though, the only thing it wanted to do was to freshen up the world. The dry parched earth had seemed to be looking longingly at the dormant skies till the previous day, missing the rain more than anyone else. Finally, the clouds broke with a shower, and the earth was happy once more that the raindrops were awake again. The ballad kept coming to him, when suddenly the ringing on the other side of the telephone stopped and a male voice answered. He recognized the voice, spoke for a while, laughed for a little while, and hung up quite quickly, and suddenly the day was all his – for him, and his son, and the raindrops pattering on the earth, which danced back in muddy delight.

“Yay! My Dad’s the best! He took the day off, and now we’re gonna have so much fun! Aren’t we, Dad?”

He barely caught a glimpse of a red t-shirt running out of the room in excitement, and he was left behind with a smile on his face and memories in his mind. He remembered the innocent smile of that girl, and how he had fallen in love with her. He remembered the song the smile inspired him to write, and how she had fallen in love with him. Now, as he saw the rain outside, he felt the need to write another song about it all – sweet innocence. As he went about his life, growing up at every step, his trysts with innocence kept reducing. Now, again, he was face to face with the thing that inspired him to write that ballad so many years ago – sweet innocence.

The black box that had been collecting dust for so long stared back at him, and he knew he had to open it and take out the guitar within. It had been a long, long time since he had given that black box a thought; he was a changed man now, so many years later. So many first showers had passed away, without him even noticing them. He remembered how he used to sit beside the window every season, the guitar in his arms, his lady’s arms thrown around his neck. For so many seasons, he wrote a song for every single one of those first showers.

So many years had passed, and he never even realized it. So many first showers had gone by, and he had just let them pass him by. He wondered if he could pick up a tune again, and weave that wonderful song out of it one more time. He wiped the dust from the leather case, and gently opened the velvet lined box. The old guitar looked even more aged after so many years, the strings red from the dust and the rust it had been catching over so many years – and yet, he was sure she remembered every tune, every chord, every note that had ever been played on it. The guitar still seemed to reverberate slightly with the echoes of the songs that had been played so long ago. He gently picked the guitar out of the case. The ebony fret board still seemed warm, even after so many years, and he cradled the guitar in his lap, poised to play it. He gently touched the rusted strings, but the notes didn’t come. He tried again, his fingers dancing on the fret board, but the music didn’t play like before. He could feel his fingers cutting on the rusted strings; barely a minute later, he stopped. The music as he knew it had left him over the years. Suddenly, he felt hollow and alone, devoid of something that he couldn’t define, which made him feel emptier still. The rain still drummed on the window pane outside, urging him to join into the rhythm. He sighed, knowing that he could never join in with the rain the way he used to before. There would be no more ballads written on that guitar, he thought sadly as he gently put the guitar back into the velvet lined case.

“C’mon, Dad! Let’s go outside in the rain. I’m wearing my raincoat, and I got yours too. We can sing songs in the rain, Dad!”

The thunder boomed outside, like the crash of the cymbals right on cue, and his son laughed gleefully and rhythmically to the sounds of the rain. The drumroll on the windowpane continued, and he could feel the laughter building up inside of him too. His son was laughing and jumping as they made their way out into the drenched world outside, singing the new secret song – a song filled with Rhythmic Laughter, and Drumrolls on Windowpanes, and Thundering Cymbals. Many years later, he discovered that honest, innocent ballad, once more.