“That’s how it is with kids. No matter how much you tell them they might get into trouble running on the busy streets, they still cannot help themselves from doing that despite all your warnings. Tell them it’s dangerous to play with fire & they will go ahead and play with lighters & matchboxes. Things go south sometime or the other. Luck eventually runs out & they end up hurting themselves. They are living, breathing panic-buttons.” - A Parent
As far as Rahul’s father could remember, the vinyl records was bestowed upon his father by his grandfather—Rahul’s great granddad who in turn had inherited the penchant for music & musical instruments from his mother. Probably it was in their genes, for the musical strain went further up the generations. Residing in a spacious studio with soundproof walls & polished, expensive wood-work, the vinyl records were the centerpiece for the room, for their high-end residence in the high-end society. Rahul’s parents loved every chance they got to show their guests the treasure trove of sound whose unfathomable depth & peculiarity was still unmatched by digital sounds.
The era of vinyl records passed a while ago but it was gradually making a comeback, which made the vinyl collection in the house of extremely high-vintage value—for there were rare albums, master-copies of many Beatles, David Bowie hits, besides limited-editions, new & used titles. From what Rahul had overheard from his father’s much-rehearsed ‘let-me-show-you-something-cool’ speech for the guests, their collection’s worth was hovering high up in the million-ballpark. With passage of time the humongous collection had expanded to more vinyl, video-cassettes, CDs, DVDs & a diverse digital library.
But the vinyl records remained the dearest to Rahul & his father, who spent hours at stretch in the studio—Rahul played his guitar, jam sessions with his drummer dad, listening to interesting & fascinating stuff behind music from his old man while songs played in the background. The legacy of music was passing on one generation after other & the ancestors were looking upon them—not through photographs on the wall but through the violins, the clarinet & the flutes that Rahul’s father had hung on the studio walls in their stead. Rahul would look at their burnished, well-maintained shine that his father personally ensured never faltered & feel as if they were waiting for their grandsires to return from the oblivion. Probably they could see through them at him. Even if they were, their twelve-year-old grandson’s skill with the musical instruments & his instincts would only make them proud.
His father had taken a much different approach to music. Maybe he was not that patient to create music anymore; he listened to it more than he practiced on his drums, and over the years had become a facilitator & a promoter of high-quality music. His heart was more in the economies of music & the workings of his company, the Music Label. Then there were the vast chain of music stores that sold everything related to sound, from guitar-picks to grand-pianos, from a variety of headphones to sound-systems—name it & you had it. He was no musician but he had good ears & a good hunch about what the listeners & enthusiasts would like. The music industry was full of singers, music directors, both new & established who had at one time or the other benefitted from his father’s generosity.
Just as his father had the knack for understanding sound, Rahul had his way with the guitar & to some extent, his father’s drum-set. His love with the instruments had begun at an early age, slowly building him into a prodigy. Through his videos & song-covers on social media, he was already making a name for himself.
The studio was a temple for the boy. There was a lifetime of music to inspire him & he had barely scratched the surface of the vast collection. Just as there’s too little time for too many books for a reader, it was too many songs to listen, too little time. There was school & homework to be dealt with too—not that Rahul had anything to complain. His grades were good & he had made some good friends.
Until his thirteenth birthday it was all fine & dandy, Rahul’s world was still whole. Trouble began when he came back from school the day before his birthday & stumbled upon something he was never supposed to see. Curiosity killed the cat, as the saying goes.
As was his habit Rahul came back straight from school, ate a quick lunch & headed straight to the studio. He had about three hours to kill before his mom took him to shop.
“My baby should dress like a gentleman for the birthday,” she told him over lunch for the umpteenth time in the last week. His father had left for a business meeting in another city for the night, with the promise that he would be back with a special gift for his son the next afternoon. There was going to be a grand dinner party that evening, as was the custom, with a long guest-list.
Rahul entered the studio humming a tune, switched on the lights & went to the section of neatly labeled vinyl collection. He spent a minute selecting the record of his choice: a Beatles collection of performances by the hit band, originally broadcast by the BBC between 1963 & ’65. Carefully taking off the vinyl & removing its cover, he began to set it into the gramophone spindle, still humming.
He was just about to play the disc when his eyes fell upon his father’s safe—it was open by an inch. Right below the shelves of vinyl, the aforementioned safe & its contents were strictly out-of-bounds for anyone but his father. Not even his mother was allowed to open the safe in his father’s absence. Rahul had never even felt curious about it, until now. A dull glow emanated from the inside, inviting him to take a peek.
He thought once again: what would the grown-ups store in a small safe with number-pad, a secret code & all that jazz? “Most probably money, they always need that,” Rahul said to no one in particular, trying to fill the gaps in his reasoning, convincing himself a peek wouldn’t hurt. He father would tell him about it one day, probably when he got older—that age-old “you’re too young to understand” excuse.
“I am thirteen,” He said, looking at his reflection in the dark glass standing against the wall to his left. He took a tentative step & then one more. He bent at the waist level & placed contact with the open door, running his fingers over the glowing keypad & digital display. He slowly opened it further, a part of him still scared of his father’s reaction if he found out he had been nosing around in the safe.
There were neither stacks of bills nor important documents of any sort inside. The safe was empty except for a CD & a vinyl record in a crystal tray. Rahul picked up the CD with extreme care & felt it burning between his fingers like it had been lying in the scorching sun for hours.
The label was plain white, bearing an unheard title in bold letters: New Beginnings: Songs to Die For. The vinyl record bore the same title & a similar plain label. He examined the smooth but thick covers of both the CD & the record for the artist’s name, the production label or even a release-date to further his further research. There must be a reason the titles were stored in a safe. That it was a rare piece of music was pretty evident.
With delicate movement Rahul removed the vinyl record from its minimalistic cover bearing only that mystifying title. Listening to it might give him a better idea. In the course of replacing the Beatles record with the New Beginnings title, Rahul saw the scratches on the vinyl surface. There were deep gouges all over it, the music etched on it now destroyed forever.
Rahul ran his fingers over the scratches, feeling the deliberate scribbles, made by a sharp tipped object. He picked up the CD, still hot to touch. He wondered why & how could an ordinary compact-disc become this warm. He ran his inside on the inside of the safe & found both the velvet lining & the crystal tray inside the safe to be at moderate temperature.
Rahul realized his heart was thudding inside his chest like a crazy drum-beat & he was holding his breath. There was no need to be so panicky. His father forgot to close the safe & he just took a peek. “I didn’t even make those scratches on the vinyl,” he said & immediately began to feel better. It was no big deal.
“I can check what’s in this & keep these things right back inside the safe, no big deal. I’ll even make sure to shut the safe properly.” It sounded perfect—and responsible, just what his mother kept telling him to be.
Rahul took the CD out of its plain, plastic cover & switched on the Samsung-player. The device gobbled up the shiny disc & the young boy held his breath in anticipation. He waited for the music to begin, the painful seconds before the track plunging him deeper into the sea of excitement. Just as a diver stumbling upon on a sea bed strewn with precious pearls, Rahul knew the importance of rare, unheard music better than the grownups around him.
Every music created was a like a reflection—of the thoughts, the minds, the story behind its creation; sound has the capability to unlock emotions & it is the emotions that man finds in music; why different people have distinct taste in music. Rahul found shelter & strength in the songs. Just as stories are portals to different lives, music for him was the portal to known & unknown emotions.
The music began: a low pipe organ set off the music, joined by violins & strings as the voices joined the tune. It seemed to be coming out of the thick soundproof walls & the shelves with the amassed assemblage of records, books, cassettes & musical instruments, from the carpeted floor beneath Rahul’s feet. The new surround system his father had recently installed boosted the song’s reach & effect. Rahul could not make out the lyrics but the language was nothing he knew—hell, it was unlike any song he had heard. The chant of the voices rose & fell—the only steady, predictable factor in a constantly changing plethora of sounds.
It had taken his heart a-hold, that music, tugging at it & bending its beats to the audible beats. It was the most melodious thing Rahul had ever heard—or imagined. He breathed the chanting verses, in a tongue he could barely understand but feel more on a strange level. There was something glorious to it, like it was made by beings with musical instruments from another world, some lost time. Nothing had touched him so before, nothing had made him feel so euphoric. He could go on listening to it, if the rest of the track was as fulfilling to the heart & mind. He knew his life had changed. The call of music had never felt this urgent, or strong.
He was lost in the music for a long time, having surrendered his will to wherever it took him. With eyes wide-open he dreamed, a smile on his face, like he could see happiness & joy masquerading as thoughts hovering before his eyes, close enough to touch.
And just like that, the world came to a standstill. The music & time for Raul came to a screeching halt as the music stopped. He was teleported back in the studio with its usual riff-raff & the striking figure of his mother standing before him, a finger on the volume knob. Rahul watched gape-mouthed, realizing slowly he was sitting on the floor—and drooling.
“What is happening? Are you ok?” She asked, flushed by concern. She crouched close & held Rahul’s face in her hand. “Were you feeling ill?”
Rahul shrugged, unable to explain how he had ended up on the floor. He wiped the drool off his chin & assured his mom he had been dozing off.
Her calm demeanor crawled back on her face. “I case you haven’t forgotten we have new clothes to buy,” she told him, “You have outgrown all the best suits. Go get ready & meet me downstairs in ten. I need my baby to look like a gentleman.” She traipsed away with that & disappeared through the polished wooden door.
She failed to see the safe lying open, or the New Beginnings vinyl cover lying near the CD console—or that her son was grinding his teeth in anger, his nails biting into his closed fists. Rahul gave a long parting glance of longing at the CD-player. The music was still playing, the CD still relaying its wondrous contents. All Rahul had to do was turn up the volume.
He extended his reach for the volume knob then paused halfway, deliberating. With reluctance, he pressed the power button off & ejected the disc, replacing it back into its cover. He did the same with the vinyl record & placed them back into the safe. The heat of the compact disk remained against his palm as he walked out of the studio. He clapped twice & the lights went off.
Music is indeed the strongest form of magic & Rahul was about to discover it fully.
The evening was a blur. Rahul’s mind & heart were left back home—inside the CD he had kept inside the safe & closed it firmly after memorizing the code on the digital display, a minor flaw in the safe’s design had widened the opportunity’s door for Rahul.
He moved as if like an automaton, guided only by voices & remnant of his senses. His mother let him hold her hand as they went around the shops in the mall. He nodded here & there, smiled openly but all his thoughts remained focused inward where the spell of music was still echoing inside his mind. The sheer indescribable beauty of the tune & the chant had encroached upon his soul & he was itching to listen to it again.
The lady could discern something was off in her kid—like he was there with her yet somewhere else, some thought pressing on his mind—but with the weights of her own plans for her son’s birthday the next day, she decided to wrap up her chores at present. She decided to ask him about it later—and forgot all about it. The kid followed her with an unusual docility & she had nothing to complain, despite how many shops she went to.
She stayed up till late, that night—talking on the phone, arranging matters related to business & the birthday party. Upstairs, Rahul lay in his bed, wide awake. He wanted to listen to the entire list of tracks in the CD but wanted to avoid letting his mom see he was going into the studio—not that she would’ve stopped him. There had been many occasions when he had slept the whole night on the leather couch in the studio.
But this was no ordinary occasion. He doubted she would not react if she discovered he had been opening & closing the safe. There was good chance she was privy to the contents of the safe that despite being pieces of music, had never been mentioned of or showed to Rahul. Lying restless in the gloom of his bedroom, his patience broke at last. He reached for his phone instinctively & sought for the search engine. He typed—New Beginnings: Songs to Die For.
The search did not yield anything concrete, no name of album or artist. There were songs for New Beginnings with motivational tracks such as Chariots of Fire & Eye of the Tiger, but there was no album with such name. He tried variations & upon entering the keyword music album alongside the title, the screen flashed a result to his satisfaction.
There were mentioned four New Beginning albums from 1995, ’96, the glorious Y2K & from ’15; three albums, each titled New Beginnings by the Advent, Don Pullen & Gerald Albright, respectively—none having the tagline ‘Songs to Die For’, along with their title. He plugged-in his earphones & began to listen to them, one-by-one, his ears strained for that particular burst of euphoric melodies he had been playing in his mind all evening. The First Song to Die For, Rahul chuckled at the thought.
His mom, the lady-of-the-house, exhausted after all her chores came in to take a peek at his twelve-about-to-turn-thirteen son. She found him deep asleep, the music on his phone still playing in his ears. The lady removed the earphones gently. She even glanced at the song he had been listening to before dozing off.
With weariness rubbing on her eyelids, she never made any connection. She was well aware of the music in the safe. Her husband had specifically told her never to touch it. She had opened the safe many times, always in his presence. He tried hard not to show it but she knew her husband had an obsessive way with the vinyl & the compact disc. It was a thing she had become primed never to mention or ask about—it unsettled her husband. And after all, it was only a bloody CD!
Rahul swam in dreams, on the river of music he had heard. It was playing on its own accord, even though he wouldn’t be able to remember much of its tune by morning. But the itch to listen to it, would remain. His world was about to change.
He knew it was an obsession Rahul had acquired overnight: the New Beginnings CD. He remembered the scratches on the vinyl & felt a stab of anger at whomever responsible for such stupidity. It would’ve sounded like heaven on the gramophone. When his eyes greeted the morning, his parents were standing at the foot of the bed, smiling like a bunch of dolls.
The light coming in through the window made Rahul wince & for a moment he felt like screaming at them for flinging the windows open & not letting him sleep more. He looked at the bouquet in his father’s hand & the anger subsided a little. They hugged him & wished him a happy birthday, finishing the jingle in a hurry to shout his name.
His father told him there was a surprise waiting for him downstairs as soon as he came down for breakfast. He patted Rahul’s shoulder warmly & walked away, oblivious to the scowl forming on his son’s lips. The New Beginnings CD in the safe would’ve been the best gift. And look at him, it’s my birthday & he didn’t even ask me what I wanted. That would’ve been something better than a hundred surprises.
He got ready with his earphones & music on, picking up where he left off: New Beginning by Stephen Gately, singing from the year 2000. But it wasn’t the one Rahul had heard last evening.
He went downstairs. His father was talking in the living room on phone, his mother was in the kitchen, directing & helping the house-help. She had made his favorite breakfast of French Toasts, OJ & banana shake, besides a platter of freshly homemade butter cookies. Rahul ate without much appetite, his eyes drifting towards the closed door to the studio.
Only when he heard his father calling out to him did he leave the dining table with his half-eaten breakfast. “I am coming back in the evening, after cake-cutting, when the drinks start…”
He did not even glance at the large present wrapped in flower-patterned & ribbons—a brand-new electric guitar his father had heard him raving about.
It was one of those times when Rahul’s eyes were fixed on the clock for most of his periods. Every hour was an endless, painful wait. While his friends were dying to go back & watch the finale of Stranger Things on Netflix, Rahul’s strangest encounter was pulling him home. When the stream of Happy Birthdays! & ‘see you in the evening’ goodbyes got over & the lectures drew to a close, Rahul did not even wait for his friends.
The close ones could see he was distracted. They thought he must be occupied with the preparations for the dinner party in his honor.
His driver though had never heard him swearing before. Truth was he could not even imagine a boy his age knew those expletives that came out every time the traffic jerked to a halt. More than the jams, the loyal servant to the household was scared of a thirteen-year-old boy’s vicious temper. Rahul Baba was not feeling himself. He eyed him in the rear-view mirror & thought his pallor seemed ashen—as if he was ill.
“Are you feeling okay, baba?” the driver asked. His concern grew when Rahul didn’t reply. He repeated the question tenderly. “We can call saab-memsaab right away, if you want me to. If you want something to drink I can—”
“Drive! Get me home!” Rahul shrieked. The driver was stunned as if he had been slapped in the face. The boy sprang from his seat, his body thrumming in a mad seizure, drool flying from the corner of his mouth. It was a blessing he did not actually hit him. And just as that, he thumped down on the backseat & fell silent, breathing hard. The man breathed a sigh of relief when Rahul plugged in his earphones & turned to his phone. A lady in the car was looking at the driver with suspicion, deducing her own explanation despite not having heard the conversation in the other car.
The songs from his Google search kept him busy for the rest of the way. He reached home, unlike his usual meticulousness, dropped his bag in the living room & hurried off to the studio, oblivious that he was walking on the spotless linoleum with his shoes on—something his mother would’ve definitely raised a hue & cry for. He pushed open the door. There he was, his father, talking business on phone & taking references from the contents on his laptop screen. His back was turned to Rahul & he didn’t see his son standing there.
Their pet-dearest, the Persian cat called Pearl, came bouncing from somewhere & wrapped itself around Rahul’s feet, craving for his attention. But he was staring right into the studio, a rhythm beginning to make his shoulders rise & fall, his fists clench & unclench. Pearl sensed something unfamiliar & yowled loudly, disentangling itself from Rahul.
He had to listen to the New Beginnings CD inside the safe! He could feel a voice in his head, telling him how important it was that he listened—now! He could hardly even remember the song he had heard, the chanting & the instruments, neither a note nor a tune. And father should know better than to carry out his business in this room. It’s not your fucking office! He wanted to scream. This room is for music, for people like me & grandfather & his father before—not for charlatans like you who think they know music just by fiddling with a few instruments & listening to some songs.
“People like you don’t even know the half of what music is, Papa,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Pearl saw his scowl & she began to retreat, yowling to express her disapproval. This time, Rahul noticed her. His scowl disappeared & his expression turned wooden for many moments. Pearl saw a glint in his eyes. A genial smile erupted on his face & he beckoned to Pearl. The cat could sense something was wrong but the incessant affinity for love at times, makes all of us blind. When Rahul knelt & threw his arms wide open, Pearl advanced.
The creature saw the scowl return, just as Pearl walked into his reach. The Persian could not comprehend the speed with which it was seized off the ground. Pearl struggled & meowed at her highest volume as its body was swung & thrown. She was a flailing projectile flying at a shelf full of bone-china showpieces of the most exquisite kind.
The sound of objects breaking & shattering within one’s house never brings good news. Rahul’s father came rushing out of the studio, the phone held away from his ear. His mother came running from a different direction, followed by the house-helps. No one had any reason to look at Rahul. Pearl, lying on the floor amidst the ruins of the lady-of-the-house’s prized collection—bought from different places on the globe—had all the limelight.
No one had any reason to doubt when Rahul told them Pearl had been chasing an ugly rat. The cat lay there on the floor for many seconds. Then it opened its eyes, shook itself & hissed angrily in Rahul’s direction. It ran away & his mother began to scream instructions. “And someone do something about the rat in the house! Keep Pearl in the backyard till it’s taken care of!” The house-helps scampered to obey.
But Rahul’s eyes were held on his father who turned on his heels, pressing the phone to his ear & went back inside the studio, shutting the door on Rahul & his plans to listen to his music-to-kill-for.
The clock ticked towards evening. The household came alive with frenetic activity outside in the lawn, where the party was being set-up for the festivities to begin. Early birds began to show up—Rahul’s aunt & her family. The birthday boy was nowhere to be seen.
He was sitting inside the house, in the living-room, facing the door to the studio. The thought of the New Beginnings music was gripping his mind like a fever. In the short minutes he had gone away to dress—surprise, surprise—his father had chosen to get dressed up, too. Rahul came down running, prim but pale in his tuxedo & saw him disappearing into the studio with a servant carrying his suit & shoes. He was still on the phone & judging by his nervous energy, about to crack some big deal.
Outside, the band began sound-checks & voice testing. Now Rahul knew his father would only leave when the party had begun. Restless & simmering with rage, he walked towards the main door. Pearl was dozing off on the thick rug in the living room. Her hackles rose with her as her eyes met Rahul’s & she scurried away terrified—and to Rahul’s satisfaction, limping with one paw slightly raised.
The guests had finally started to arrive in steady flow. Waiters were serving cocktails & kebabs. The hostess, Rahul’s mother was entertaining the ladies & gentlemen, a figure of grace in her flowing scarlet dress & a hint of makeup. She lit up & called out to Rahul the moment he entered the glimmering party-ground. She showed him around, slightly worried about her son’s blanched face & sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead. “Are you well, son? You’re all white & sweaty.”
Rahul looked up at her & flashed an assuring smile & a thumbs-up before greeting an elderly couple nearby. He talked to them, nodded earnestly & went around, holding his mother’s hand. She didn’t know her son had grown so warmed up towards social gatherings, unlike his general aloofness. The sudden onset of his paleness kept troubling her.
She asked after his health again. “Chill mom, I was playing with Pearl in the backyard, teaching her to hunt, you know, so she can catch that mouse & eat them,” Rahul reassured her by holding an invisible mouse in his hand & biting off its head. “Rrrr” he growled, doing an excellent imitation of a growling predator. She laughed & ruffled his hair. He smiled & told her—“Mom, stop your PDA & call dad. Isn’t time to cut the cake?”
A shiver ran up his spine at the sight of his father coming out of the house—he was only a step away from the empty studio & his revered music. They cake was soon cut & the drinks began to float freely. The moment came closer. He pushed his food around in the plate, watching his mother stepping into warmer waters. She was happy enough to be taking larger sips of their nectar, settling into the flow of conversation. His father was nowhere to be seen.
Rahul got up & no one noticed.
He bolted towards the house the minute he cleared the lawn. For the first time it struck him that something was not well, that he had done things he should never have done. He realized he had not even partaken of food & water the whole day—not even a drop of water. Yet his feet & mind drove him onward, into the house.
He entered in a hurry, scaring Pearl once again. The lights in the living room were off. Rahul was hurrying towards the illumination at the other end of the hall—where the door to the studio was—when he saw movement right outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. There was a small lawn with a bench, surrounded by dense trees. In the vestigial light he saw the man’s silhouette against the backdrop of darkness, in strange throes of ecstatic motion.
Despite his screaming mind’s protest, Rahul inched closer to the window. The lawn was full of shadows but Rahul thought there was another figure hunched upon the bench. Rahul pressed his nose to the glass, still invisible to the ones outside. The man’s silhouette became clearer.
The kid had no mistake recognizing his father even though his face was not even partially visible. He did not react when he saw the woman rocking along his father’s pelvic thrusts—it couldn’t be his mom. She was back in the lawn, drinking & talking to her guests. His father continued to fondle & dance with his pants down. Rahul turned away & resumed his advance towards the studio, his raving mind processing the new information.
How would mother feel knowing daddy cracked the deal? The thought made him cackle. The studio’s door swung inward. There was a pile of presents on the carpeted floor. But Rahul’s eyes were all set for the safe.
The silhouettes were splayed on the bench, camouflaged well by the shadowy trees above. The heat & sweet weariness of their satisfying coitus was still dissipating. The night-air cooled off the layer of sweat on their exposed skin. “I should be heading back to the party,” the woman said.
The man nodded & got up to pull up his pants & buckle his belt, as if he was waiting for the cue to end their clandestine affair. “I’m going back to finish my work.” He told her, admiring her bare back as she dressed sober.
“Who works at midnight?” the woman asked. “You just want to keep up appearances ‘coz you’re scared of your wife.” She teased him.
“When will I see you next?” he asked, straightening the lapels of his coat. The woman turned to look at him. She was smiling & the mischief, the sensuality of her smile was enough to make him long for more of her wildness.
“It’s your son’s birthday & you got the best possible gift in his stead. What’s the rush, tiger? You’ll get us in trouble if your wife catches wind of our business-meetings.” She laughed & the man could not help himself from grabbing her by the waist. He wanted to take her, right there.
“I want more, make time for me,” he whispered between deep, desperate breaths of passion.
The woman bit the air inches away from his chin. “Wait for my message then.” With that, she began to walk away.
The man watched her go helplessly, reining-in his horses. He climbed up the balcony stairs & gently opened the door. He listened for anyone’s presence inside for a few seconds then slipped into the living room like a sly cat. His wife had left messages for him, asking where he was, telling him that the guests were beginning to leave. He replied that he was busy on a phone call with an international artist soon to create songs for the Music Label.
He opened the door to the studio & a blast of loud music greeted him like wind in the face. The studio was partially lit but the carnage stood out distinctly like a library consecrated by vandals. The various books related to music were lying shredded on the floor. The ceiling fans were running at full & making the innumerable bits of paper flutter & fly around the studio. The framed pictures hung askew on their pegs. One of the two expensive paintings he had bought for charitable purposes lay on its face on the floor, the other had tears slashed over the landscape painted upon it, like ugly scars. The packed gifts in the middle of the room had been trampled & broken & strewn around the room. The guitar he had brought as a present for his son was broken in half, its chords loose & dangling.
And the perpetrator of all that mischief & destruction was standing in the middle of it—hunched, legs apart, hair falling over his eyes and fuming. The music played in the background, giving the child’s face hidden in the shadows an eerie ominous score to go with. The man was looking at his son’s dark reflection raving with lunacy for it didn’t look like his innocuous son.
His legs felt rubbery & his lips were pursed. The music wafting from the booming Bosche speakers seemed to muddle his mind—the rapidly rising & fall rhythms made the man’s heart flutter, like the gravity was constantly pulling it downward. There was a chorus of scary voices chanting gibberish alongside the music’s arrhythmic beat. The music became intense, approaching its noisy crescendo & the screaming began—clear voices of men, women & children in agony, ululating cries of animals—the images that crept into his mind were of a vast, parched desert-like expanse where a massacre was unfolding. And it felt real, as if they had actually been recorded in a slaughterhouse.
“What have you done?” the man shouted at his son over the din & his words seemed to stretch. Whaat havvve youuu dooone—it was as if the very air was thick with the unearthly music issuing from everywhere at once, working its way into their minds, even through the air they inhaled, distorting logic & reality, twisting reasons & emotions into a dark knot.
The music played. The boy picked up the broken end of the guitar & ran at his father, swinging its sharp, splintery end. The man could do nothing but watch at the impending world of hurt & pain. He did not even wonder why & how his son had transformed into a feral psychopath drooling from the mouth. The details were sharp when the guitar’s fret-board hit him in the chin. The music felt just right, goading him to welcome the pain—with a lustful smile.
The guard sitting at the wide glass-door leading into the local radio-station was fast asleep. He didn’t hear the elevator door slide open. Like shadows the three figures crossed the hallway. The pale kid in the tuxedo led them, the guitar’s fret-board still swinging by his side, its splintery end now stubbed & covered in drying blood.
The man & woman coming up behind were dressed in the nicest clothes. Both had matching complexions to their son, the same blank face & rapidly moving eyes, as if they were watching everything yet could hardly see anything. One side of the man’s face was bloody, full of small & big concussions & cuts. There was deep gash at his hairline, still spreading wet beads of blood.
He followed the kid, towing his docile wife behind, still pretty despite the vacant daze on her face. There was a pin-drop silence within the station. There was still some time to go before dawn. As if guided by instincts, the trio moved deeper into the establishment. A large blow-up of the erstwhile music magnate—now a slavering, beaten-up zombie-of-a-father—dominated on the wall facing a row of glassed-in studios with all the necessary equipments for radio-jockeys. Only one was occupied. A young man was speaking into the mouthpiece over a steaming mug of coffee, sending out his words to whoever was listening.
“To those half-sleepy souls ready to start a new day, to those love-struck sleepless friends tossing around in your beds, this is your stubborn RJ come to jumpstart your day,” he twirled the knobs & played the music. “Here’s to the morning, to a fresh start of dreams & love.” Satisfied he gulped his coffee & suddenly realized there was someone standing at the periphery of his vision. He turned.
The sight of the grim trio was unexpected & ominous, and all that blood on the man’s face & painted red on the broken guitar-end was enough to loosen the RJ’s grip on his mind & the mug of his coffee. The hot liquid burned his crotch & brought him back to his senses. Then recognition set in.
His employer & his family seemed to have stepped out of some party in hell. The skins on the faces of the father & son were taut & white, their faces sunken & devoid of nutrition. The woman was still looking better than the other two but she was as vigilant. Three pairs of malicious, hollow eyes made the RJ shudder.
“Sir, are you all right?” the RJ asked, his voice hoarse & trembling.
The boy took a step toward him & he tried to retreat. There was nowhere to go. He stood frozen at his station, the front of his jeans wet & dripping. The boy came close, one hand holding the bloody chunk of the guitar, the other reaching inside his tux. He held out the CD to the RJ & for a moment the RJ didn’t even see the disc. He pulled back in surprise then realizing it was only a CD, he slowly reached out.
“What do you want me to do with it?” he asked. The boy lowered his gaze to the console behind the RJ & held his gaze there. He outweighed & outsized the kid but there was something in his eyes, a zero flicker of thoughts that discouraged him from making any false move.
“You want me to play it? What is it?” he read the title then turned towards the console. He inserted the disc, glad to look away from their ghostly faces. Were they high on something? The boy poked his weapon into his back & he immediately straightened. “Yes, I am playing your request right after the song playing at the moment.” The boy poked him harder. “Okay, okay, right away.” He twiddled with the screen.
The boy turned to his father & his mother. The sun was peeping above the western horizon outside. The city was beginning to stir. An unspoken emotion passed between the bloody father & his tormentor son. The son smiled first, then the father—a plastic smile devoid of emotions, a smile for a job well done.
The song began to play. The City’s Favorite Channel released the first wave of the songs to die for. It was a new day, a new struggle & the city was about to lose its mind....
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