From Strings to Silence: A Guitar Story
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The Spark of Curiosity
It all began when I was fifteen, caught in the whirlwind of 10th grade. One fateful afternoon, while scrolling through YouTube, I stumbled upon a guitar lesson that would change everything. Mesmerized, I watched as the guitarist effortlessly strummed chords, conjuring melodies that floated like whispers in the air. I had always loved music, my heart beating to the rhythm of songs, but I had never dared to dream of playing an instrument myself.
Every day, I immersed myself in Hollywood music videos, daydreaming about what it would be like to captivate an audience with my voice. But the guitar called to me in a way that nothing else did. It became my secret obsession.
The Quest for a Guitar
Without a guitar of my own, I threw myself into online lessons, absorbing every note and chord. But as the weeks passed, I realized that watching wasn’t enough—I longed to touch the strings, to feel the music resonate through my body. My school’s music classes felt like mere playtime, lacking the structure I craved.
Determined to make my dream a reality, I shared my desire for a guitar with my sister and best friend. Their encouragement lit a fire in me, but asking my parents for a guitar would be no small feat. Coming from a middle-class family, I knew that it wouldn’t be easy to make such a request.
I did my research and found that a decent acoustic guitar would cost between ₹7,000 and ₹10,000. I approached my parents carefully, trying not to sound demanding. At first, they brushed off my passion, but I persisted, sharing my dreams and my determination to learn something new.
After weeks of hopeful conversations, everything changed one Sunday—my birthday, no less. As my family returned from celebrating, my father took an unexpected detour to a house I didn’t recognize. It belonged to a friend of my cousin, B, a talented musician known throughout our family for his skills. My father had discussed my passion with this friend, who happened to have an old guitar he hadn’t used in years.
When my father handed me that red Yamaha guitar, it felt like a dream realized. Overwhelmed with surprise, joy, and the exhilarating taste of possibility, I held that instrument close. It may have been second-hand, but to me, it was a treasure. In that moment, I knew my journey had officially begun.
Embracing the Journey
With my guitar finally in hand, I felt like the universe had opened up to me. This instrument had a story—a history of music and passion. I invested in a new bag to keep it safe and gathered accessories like picks and a capo. My fingertips soon hardened from hours of practice, a badge of honour for my dedication.
As I immersed myself in online lessons, I felt a growing need for proper guidance. That’s when I turned to my cousin, B, for help. Although he travelled often for his shows, he connected me with his friend, C—a kind and firm musician who quickly became my mentor. I felt lucky to have her by my side, even if her house was miles away. I rode there daily for months, guitar slung across my back.
C taught me so much; her passion for music was contagious. After a couple of months, she encouraged me to explore on my own, leading me to dive headfirst into a long list of Hollywood and Bollywood songs. With each strum, I felt an incredible rush of joy and freedom.
The guitar became my sanctuary. It helped me escape from the trials of school, where I dealt with bullying and self-doubt. Each song I learned was a step toward healing, allowing me to express emotions I had struggled to articulate. Playing became my refuge, a way to channel my pain into something beautiful.
A Shocking Turn
After two years of dedication, I felt like I was on top of the world with my guitar. One day, my sister and I decided to record a video where I would play and we would sing together. Dressed in a beautiful gown, I felt confident and excited as we took our performance to the terrace on a rainy monsoon day. The weather was perfect, and we snapped countless pictures with my guitar, capturing our joy for Instagram.
But then, everything changed. My cousin B, who had once been my inspiration, saw the post and reacted harshly. Just days earlier, he had praised my playing at a family gathering, and I had felt encouraged by his support. But now, he criticized me, claiming I shouldn’t take pictures with my guitar and should abandon my music dreams altogether.
His words cut deep. I had looked up to him, and hearing such negativity from someone I admired shattered my confidence. I tried to explain that the photos were meant to celebrate my journey, but he dismissed my feelings, calling me childish and unserious. Hurt, I confided in my parents, who reached out to him, affirming that there was nothing wrong with my pictures.
Despite my apology, his disdain only grew. He demanded the return of the guitar, a request that felt like a dagger to my heart. That day, as I returned the instrument that had brought me so much joy, it felt as though I was losing a piece of my soul.
The Aftermath
Handing over that guitar was not just about relinquishing a physical object; it was a painful farewell to the music, the healing, and the expression it had provided me. In that moment, I felt an immense void—a reminder of how someone I once admired could turn against me.
The journey that had begun with so much promise now felt clouded by disappointment. I was left grappling with the loss of my guitar and the inspiration I had found in my cousin. Yet, I knew that deep within, the music still lingered, waiting for the day I could pick up the strings again and reclaim my voice.
As I look back on that chapter, I realize that the silence that followed did not mean the end; rather, it was a moment of reflection, a space where I could gather my strength and perhaps one day, find my way back to the music that had once filled my life with joy.
Attachment is Hard to End, and Memories are Hard to Delete
Four long years have passed since I returned that guitar, and the silence between my cousin and me has lingered like an open wound that refuses to heal. That day marked a painful turning point; I never spoke to him directly again, and my family, caught in the awkwardness, created a chasm of distance that felt insurmountable. My aunt tried to mediate, urging me to let it go and move on, but the hurt ran deep. A vital part of my life felt as though it had been violently torn away, leaving a gaping hole in my heart. I often found myself cursing the circumstances that led to that heart-wrenching moment.
Now, at 21, I look back on that chapter with a bittersweet ache. On my birthday this year, I treated myself to a brand new guitar—one I purchased with my own hard-earned savings. Holding this instrument, I felt a rush of joy and accomplishment, yet it was overshadowed by an unbearable sadness that clung to me like a shadow.
I am grateful for this new guitar; it symbolizes my resilience and growth. But no matter how much I try to embrace it, the gap left by my first guitar is one that no one can fill. Time moves forward, but it never truly heals; it simply passes, dragging with it memories I wish I could forget. The songs I once played, the feelings of freedom and joy they brought me, and the inspiration that flowed through me during those precious days are now haunting echoes of what used to be.
That ache in my heart serves as a constant reminder that some losses leave scars that never fade. I realize, with a heavy heart, that I will never fully be able to fill that void. The pain lingers like an unfinished melody, forever shaping who I am today. It reminds me that attachments can be incredibly hard to sever, and some memories, no matter how much time passes, are etched into the fabric of our souls, refusing to let go.
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