From Strings to Silence: A Guitar Story
By Pranjal Sharma
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The Spark of Curiosity
It began like a whisper, faint but persistent, during the bustling days of 10th grade. At fifteen, overwhelmed with school and teen angst, I stumbled upon a YouTube video—a simple guitar tutorial. The musician on screen moved his fingers with such ease, and the sound that came out of that wooden box struck something in me. Until then, music had always been background noise, something I loved to hum to or sing along with. But that video planted a seed.
Suddenly, music wasn’t just something I listened to. It was something I wanted to create. I spent hours watching Hollywood music videos, imagining myself not just as the singer, but as someone who made people feel through strings and rhythm. I didn’t yet have a guitar, but I had a dream—and that was enough to get started.
It began like a whisper, faint but persistent, during the bustling days of 10th grade. At fifteen, overwhelmed with school and teen angst, I stumbled upon a YouTube video—a simple guitar tutorial. The musician on screen moved his fingers with such ease, and the sound that came out of that wooden box struck something in me. Until then, music had always been background noise, something I loved to hum to or sing along with. But that video planted a seed.
Suddenly, music wasn’t just something I listened to. It was something I wanted to create. I spent hours watching Hollywood music videos, imagining myself not just as the singer, but as someone who made people feel through strings and rhythm. I didn’t yet have a guitar, but I had a dream—and that was enough to get started.
The Quest for a Guitar
Without an instrument, I relied on imagination and YouTube tutorials. I watched, learned, noted down chords, and pretended to play along. But screen time wasn’t enough. I craved the feel of strings beneath my fingers, the real vibration of music created by my own hands.
School music classes were too casual, more about singing in groups than learning technique. I needed structure, passion—something personal. I confided in my sister and best friend, and they encouraged me, saying, "Ask your parents; maybe they’ll understand."
But coming from a modest middle-class family, I knew that asking for a ₹7,000–₹10,000 guitar was a big ask. Still, I gathered courage, did my research, and approached my parents gently—not with a demand, but with a dream. At first, they dismissed it, calling it “just a phase.” But I didn’t stop talking about it. I kept showing them videos, kept describing how much it meant to me.
Then came my birthday.
Without an instrument, I relied on imagination and YouTube tutorials. I watched, learned, noted down chords, and pretended to play along. But screen time wasn’t enough. I craved the feel of strings beneath my fingers, the real vibration of music created by my own hands.
School music classes were too casual, more about singing in groups than learning technique. I needed structure, passion—something personal. I confided in my sister and best friend, and they encouraged me, saying, "Ask your parents; maybe they’ll understand."
But coming from a modest middle-class family, I knew that asking for a ₹7,000–₹10,000 guitar was a big ask. Still, I gathered courage, did my research, and approached my parents gently—not with a demand, but with a dream. At first, they dismissed it, calling it “just a phase.” But I didn’t stop talking about it. I kept showing them videos, kept describing how much it meant to me.
Then came my birthday.
A Birthday Surprise
That evening, after dinner and cake, my father casually drove us somewhere unexpected. We stopped at a house I didn’t recognise. A moment later, I was shaking hands with a family friend of my cousin B—a brilliant musician. My dad had told him about my dream, and miraculously, he had an old red Yamaha acoustic guitar that he hadn’t used in years.
That red guitar felt like magic in my hands. My father didn’t say much, but in his quiet way, he’d given me permission to dream. I didn’t care that it was second-hand. To me, it was perfect. That night, I clutched it like a newborn, feeling like the luckiest person alive. My journey had finally begun.
That evening, after dinner and cake, my father casually drove us somewhere unexpected. We stopped at a house I didn’t recognise. A moment later, I was shaking hands with a family friend of my cousin B—a brilliant musician. My dad had told him about my dream, and miraculously, he had an old red Yamaha acoustic guitar that he hadn’t used in years.
That red guitar felt like magic in my hands. My father didn’t say much, but in his quiet way, he’d given me permission to dream. I didn’t care that it was second-hand. To me, it was perfect. That night, I clutched it like a newborn, feeling like the luckiest person alive. My journey had finally begun.
Embracing the Journey
With my new (old) guitar, I became unstoppable. I bought a padded bag, picks, a capo—everything a real guitarist needed. My fingertips soon hardened with pride from hours of daily practice. I couldn’t afford professional classes, but I reached out to my cousin B—the same cousin whose friend gave me the guitar.
Although B was a travelling musician and couldn’t teach me regularly, he introduced me to his friend C. A passionate and strict teacher, C lived far away, but I made the journey daily. For months, she taught me not just the technical aspects, but the soul of music. She’d say, "Don’t just play the notes. Feel them."
Eventually, I graduated to playing full Bollywood and Hollywood songs on my own. My Instagram started filling up with covers, short snippets, and captions that said things like “From my strings, to your soul.” Music became my escape from school pressure, bullying, and insecurities. It was my safe haven, the place where I felt whole.
With my new (old) guitar, I became unstoppable. I bought a padded bag, picks, a capo—everything a real guitarist needed. My fingertips soon hardened with pride from hours of daily practice. I couldn’t afford professional classes, but I reached out to my cousin B—the same cousin whose friend gave me the guitar.
Although B was a travelling musician and couldn’t teach me regularly, he introduced me to his friend C. A passionate and strict teacher, C lived far away, but I made the journey daily. For months, she taught me not just the technical aspects, but the soul of music. She’d say, "Don’t just play the notes. Feel them."
Eventually, I graduated to playing full Bollywood and Hollywood songs on my own. My Instagram started filling up with covers, short snippets, and captions that said things like “From my strings, to your soul.” Music became my escape from school pressure, bullying, and insecurities. It was my safe haven, the place where I felt whole.
A Monsoon Memory That Changed Everything
One rainy afternoon, my sister and I went to the terrace with the guitar. I wore a flowing gown, and she recorded a duet—me on guitar, both of us singing. We were just having fun, celebrating our bond and our love for music. The pictures came out beautifully. I shared one on Instagram, never imagining the storm it would bring.
Days before, B had praised my progress during a family dinner. But after seeing that post, his reaction flipped. “You shouldn’t take photos like that,” he messaged. “You’re making a joke of this. You’re not serious.”
I was shattered.
He called me immature, attention-seeking. I tried to explain, told him it was just for fun, for art, for memories. But he refused to listen. My parents stood by me and even called him to clarify, but his mind was made up. A few days later, he asked for the guitar back.
One rainy afternoon, my sister and I went to the terrace with the guitar. I wore a flowing gown, and she recorded a duet—me on guitar, both of us singing. We were just having fun, celebrating our bond and our love for music. The pictures came out beautifully. I shared one on Instagram, never imagining the storm it would bring.
Days before, B had praised my progress during a family dinner. But after seeing that post, his reaction flipped. “You shouldn’t take photos like that,” he messaged. “You’re making a joke of this. You’re not serious.”
I was shattered.
He called me immature, attention-seeking. I tried to explain, told him it was just for fun, for art, for memories. But he refused to listen. My parents stood by me and even called him to clarify, but his mind was made up. A few days later, he asked for the guitar back.
From Strings to Silence
I handed it back with trembling hands. That red guitar, the one that had been my companion through laughter and tears, was gone. I felt like I had returned not just an instrument, but a part of myself. That silence afterwards wasn’t just quiet—it was loud in its absence. The music that had filled my room, my heart, my soul—it was gone.
No more late-night strumming. No more song requests from friends. No more feeling like I belonged somewhere.
The cousin I had admired, who once helped me chase my dream, had now turned into a stranger. I couldn't understand how someone who once encouraged me could suddenly strip it all away over a photo. The silence between us wasn’t just awkward—it was devastating.
I handed it back with trembling hands. That red guitar, the one that had been my companion through laughter and tears, was gone. I felt like I had returned not just an instrument, but a part of myself. That silence afterwards wasn’t just quiet—it was loud in its absence. The music that had filled my room, my heart, my soul—it was gone.
No more late-night strumming. No more song requests from friends. No more feeling like I belonged somewhere.
The cousin I had admired, who once helped me chase my dream, had now turned into a stranger. I couldn't understand how someone who once encouraged me could suddenly strip it all away over a photo. The silence between us wasn’t just awkward—it was devastating.
Four Years Later: The Weight of Memory
I am 21 now. Four years have passed, but the ache hasn’t. The silence between B and me remains like an unresolved chord waiting to be resolved. We don’t speak. Family functions are quieter. My aunt told me to "just forget it," but how do you forget something that was once your everything?
This year, on my birthday, I did something monumental. I bought a new guitar. A glossy, beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I paid for it myself, with money I had earned. When I held it, I felt the pride of growth—but also the pang of loss.
The new guitar is wonderful, but it doesn’t carry the same memories. It doesn't hum the same. It doesn’t remind me of late nights filled with first chords or the excited calls to my sister when I learned a new song. It doesn’t feel like the one I lost.
I play again, but not as freely. I sing again, but not as fearlessly. The wounds may not bleed anymore, but they scar deep. Music, once my comfort, now comes with caution.
I am 21 now. Four years have passed, but the ache hasn’t. The silence between B and me remains like an unresolved chord waiting to be resolved. We don’t speak. Family functions are quieter. My aunt told me to "just forget it," but how do you forget something that was once your everything?
This year, on my birthday, I did something monumental. I bought a new guitar. A glossy, beautiful piece of craftsmanship. I paid for it myself, with money I had earned. When I held it, I felt the pride of growth—but also the pang of loss.
The new guitar is wonderful, but it doesn’t carry the same memories. It doesn't hum the same. It doesn’t remind me of late nights filled with first chords or the excited calls to my sister when I learned a new song. It doesn’t feel like the one I lost.
I play again, but not as freely. I sing again, but not as fearlessly. The wounds may not bleed anymore, but they scar deep. Music, once my comfort, now comes with caution.
Strings Tied to the Soul
The truth is, music saved me. But the guitar broke me. Not because of what it was, but because of what it represented: trust, belief, and the betrayal that followed. That first red guitar will always be my first love, and like all first loves, it taught me something I’ll never forget—how deeply we can feel, and how quietly things can fall apart.
Some wounds don’t scream—they strum in silence. And some silences aren’t empty—they're full of memories.
And yet, here I am, guitar in hand again. A little wiser, a little more cautious, but still reaching for the sound that once healed me.
Maybe one day, the music will return—not just to my fingers, but to my heart.
"From strings I began, and to silence I once returned. But somewhere in between, I found who I truly am." 🎸💔
The truth is, music saved me. But the guitar broke me. Not because of what it was, but because of what it represented: trust, belief, and the betrayal that followed. That first red guitar will always be my first love, and like all first loves, it taught me something I’ll never forget—how deeply we can feel, and how quietly things can fall apart.
Some wounds don’t scream—they strum in silence. And some silences aren’t empty—they're full of memories.
And yet, here I am, guitar in hand again. A little wiser, a little more cautious, but still reaching for the sound that once healed me.
Maybe one day, the music will return—not just to my fingers, but to my heart.
"From strings I began, and to silence I once returned. But somewhere in between, I found who I truly am." 🎸💔
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