It is 1980, a contrasting era of political turbulence and cultural vibrancy in the bustling city of Calcutta in the Indian subcontinent – a boiling cauldron of various races, religions, and philosophies. A twenty-year-old man with a pair of unusual light brown eyes peers down at a broken bellowed instrument through the murky glass of an old and dilapidating music store in Bentinck Street on the Eastern wall of the Lal Bazar Police Station, headquarters of the Calcutta Police. Though young, the fellow knew his music and recognised the potential of a fantastic gem of a harmonium hidden inside the ruse of the rustic reed instrument.
Shifting his gaze from the harmonium and taking a few steps back to the edge of the footpath, Abir Mookherjee lifted his head and looked at the many old music stores on either side of the cobblestoned street. He smiled and wondered how this place had evolved over the past two centuries.
In 1780, the area was still a jungle, almost inaccessible during the monsoons. Chinese immigrants had started to settle in the region. By 1850, among other trades, butchering goats and cows had become a prominent occupation on the street, and the locality came to be known as Kasai-Tala, meaning place (Tala) of the butchers (Kasai) in Bengali. The British with their ever-twisting accents officially named the road as Cossitala Street. In memory of Lieutenant-General Lord William Henry Cavendish Bentinck, Governor-General of Bengal and India from 1828 to 1835, it was renamed Bentinck Street in 1876.
Two hundred years ago, Hindus visiting Kalighat Temple from Chitpur Road (later renamed Rabindra Sarani) abhorred walking past the area as the foul smell of raw mutton and beef deterred their spirits on their road to spirituality. Now, in 1980, the air in this stretch of the street smelled of wood, paint, glue, and brass, of old and new musical instruments, as talented artisans crafted them out on the footpaths and inside the archaic music stores that had stood there for the past few generations withstanding the test of time.
Bentinck Street had become the place in the city to buy and repair musical instruments. As most of the instruments were made by a single person from scratch to finish, musicians would often sit beside talented workers giving little suggestions here and there to customise. Conversations with the gifted craftsmen and wise store owners usually revealed unknown stories of Indian and International musicians who had visited the place and spent time there. They said that little hidden stories of the music world could be found in Calcutta’s Bentinck Street.
“How much will you sell this Harmonium for Uncle?” asked Abir, summoning up the courage to enter the shop after an hour of being lost in his thoughts and gaping at the instrument from outside.
An old and rickety octogenarian with loose and wrinkled skin and a weathered face covered in pockmarks emerged from behind the dusty counter. Wobbling toward the young man, he said, “Son, you would have never been able to buy this Harmonium if its owner was still alive. They say it belonged to a great musician who had accidentally left it in the city during one of his performances around the 1930s. Someone nicked it and sold it to someone, who sold it to someone till it landed here at the shop along with the story. It has been lying here for over half a century. Though it could be priceless, however being broken beyond repair, with no proof of its origin, and seeing you stand outside my shop gaping at it every day, I will sell it to you for twenty takas. What do you say, my brown-eyed sonny?”
Late that night, Abir tinkered with the old instrument, carefully detaching its worn-out keys and corroding wood panels under the incandescent flickering yellow light of a 40-watt tungsten filament bulb swivelling from a rusty table lamp on a jiggly wooden table inside his four-by-ten feet rented room at a student’s mess house near Sealdah Railway Station on Surya Sen Street.
His true passion – his love for music certainly played a greater role in the over-enthusiastic restoration than the fact that he was studying mechanical engineering. The career path was forced on him by his parents, who hated imagining their intelligent son playing music for a living. In those days, music, acting, and many other performing arts were not considered to be noble professions by middle-class Indian families.
Crraaakkkk… a sudden sharp noise of old wood splitting as Abir applied pressure with his screwdriver to loosen a teetering wooden rivet from the left-side panel of the instrument gave him the fright of his life. “Alas! I must have broken something,” cried out the budding engineer-musician, closing his eyes. After a moment of feeling miserable, he opened his lids to investigate the damage. “What the heck,” exclaimed Abir as he gently pulled out a secret drawer hidden behind the left wood panel, which he had accidentally cracked open.
Inside the hidden compartment were some letters, a piece of sheet music which looked like an unfinished composition, and the portrait of a woman of uncanny beauty. Saying adieu to sleep, an over-excited Abir Mookherjee plunged into this sudden mystery that literally came out of the old music machine.
There were five letters from ‘Meera’ – so Abir had a name and a photo, which meant he could perhaps find out who this beauty was. Unfortunately, the letters were addressed to ‘RS’ – perhaps someone’s initials or a nickname. Abir spent the rest of the night tearing up his hair, trying to figure out what he had stumbled upon. He had opened up the harmonium completely, and nothing else was hidden inside apart from the words ‘RS’ gilded in gold on the base of the secret compartment.
On the sudden impulse of a few music lovers from various localities of Southern Calcutta, a three-night cultural programme of drama, song, and classical and light music was organised in Dover Lane in the third week of January in the year 1952. This transcended into the formation of “The Dover Lane Music Conference” – a non-profit voluntary organisation, which has since then dedicatedly organised this music fest annually. Over the decades, it had come to become the musical event of the year in the city, exceeding any similar function in scope and scale. It would be hard, if not nearly impossible, to name any maestros of Indian Classical Music, either living or dead, who had not performed there.
Abir’s trail of research had now landed him in the drawing room of a tiny mansion of one Shriman Bhojohori Dotto on a quaint corner of this very Dover Lane, just after a few days since he had cracked open the mysterious musical instrument. Heirloom mahogany furniture, Belgium glass chandeliers, and English drapes added to the age-old charm of the antique house. “Sir, do you recognise this lady” asked Abir to the forgetful grey-hair, laying the old photograph on the centre table.
After Intensely looking at the portrait for a long time drumming his left knuckles with his right forefingers, the old-timer rose from his armchair, slowly moving toward a creaky cabinet. It took him forever to reach the wooden almirah, which was neatly racked with LP Records. Taking his time, he finally drew out the one he was searching for. After several more minutes of shaky dusting and wobbly tinkering of a rustic gramophone; the melodious voice of a woman ultimately emanated from the brass dome of the antique music machine.
“You are hearing the last song sung by the legendary singer of her time Meera Kumari at the very first music fest of Dover Lane in January of 1952. The song was recorded in the same month at the Hindusthan Record at 6/1 Akrur Dutta Lane in our beloved city. At the time, she must have been in her late 40s but unfortunately, she never sang again. I do not know what became of her or why she stopped singing. That’s the extent of my fading memory to support your investigation,” pronouncing these words Bhojohori Dotto said adieu to the young man. Though now Abir knew a bit about the lady in the photo, ‘RS’ was still a mystery. The old man could not remember anything or anyone connecting these two sequential alphabets.
In 1876, the Albert Hall was founded on College Street, as the primary residence of Ramkamal Sen, Treasurer of the Bank of Bengal and Secretary of the Asiatic Society. Later, in 1942, the Coffee Board started a coffee joint there. Following this, in 1947, the Central Government changed its name to Coffee House. Since then, it has been a meeting place for notable citizens, revolutionary youths, poets, artistes, literati, and people from the world of art and culture in the city. Abir’s investigation had now brought him into the echoing halls of this hallowed institution, where after meeting a few old music buffs, landing at a hopeless juncture in his mysterious research, he now sat on a small table sipping a glass of ‘infusion,’ the local name for the Americano style of black coffee.
Right at that moment of despair, with no new hope or leads, when the young man contemplated abandoning his quest, he could not believe his eyes as he saw the most beautiful pair of dazzling blue eyes. He saw the lady of his mysterious portrait walk into the joint and sit at the table right in front of him. How could this be? His research revealed Meera to be at least 75 years old if alive.
Here she looked to be in her early thirties, and he could not help but gape at the highlights of her beauty, her almond eyes, sharp nose, thin lips, elegant fingers and curly hair free-flowing up to the edge of her saree on the bare skin of her shapely hips. Something was different though from the photograph, perhaps the eyes. Abir could not help but fall in love instantly. He could not help but stare without blinking.
“Excuse me, if you are going to gape so shamelessly, maybe it’s better to get acquainted first to get this over with,” spoke up the lady as she left her seat and came and sat on the empty chair at Abir’s table. Dumbstruck for the next couple of moments and finally coming down to earth the young man said, “Hello Meera, I am Abir.”
“Wow, that’s really new, and you are a bit too young and a few decades late to date my mom. May her soul rest in Peace. I am Dia Kumari, the estranged daughter of an unknown man and the legendary Meera Kumari. You see my eyes are blue and my mother’s were green,” said the lady as she lit a filter-less mini-Charminar cigarette between her sensual lips.
As the confusion cleared and the atmosphere relaxed, Abir told her the story of the mysterious harmonium and his research till now. He showed her the letters, the unfinished sheet music, and Meera’s portrait. The photo being black-n-white Abir could not have known the colour of her eyes. Though initially sceptical of Abir’s quest, Dia gradually felt the urge to dig deeper into the mystery.
That day the two spent many hours at the Coffee House discussing the Harmonium’s story. As time passed both of them started spending a lot of time together trying to solve the mystery. They met many elderly musicians, artists, and historians who shared tales of the city’s artistic renaissance of the early to mid-twentieth century.
Their relationship transcended to the next level and Dia spent many nights in Abir’s loving embrace in his tiny hostel room on Surya Sen Street. As the days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, their love grew stronger, they made love, repaired the harmonium and completed the unfinished composition, till Abir became excessively obsessed with the investigation. Dia saw the young man losing his grip on reality and had to make the painful decision to end their relationship.
It is 2024, and more than four decades have passed by. A well-polished man in his mid-sixties in an English Tweed walks into the iconic Oxford Bookstore on Park Street established more than a century ago in 1919. A song lightly playing from an overhead speaker at the entrance of the store lured him into the shop. It was the same unfinished sheet music by a mysterious musician to his secret love, an iconic singer of her time. It was the same unfinished composition that the old man had finished in his youth in the loving embrace of his beloved in the tiny hostel room on Surya Sen Street.
Taking a few steps, he froze as his eyes fell on a newly launched book on the central display. The cover showcased an old black-n-white picture of the singer ‘Robi Shonkor’ from the thirties in thick black-rimmed bakelite glasses playing “The Harmonium” that the old engineer, a long time ago in his youth, had been obsessed with.
As he started reading the book, distant recollections of a short and lost love from his youth flashed at the back of his mind. Those days were, however, long gone. After his beloved ended their relationship, he focussed back on his studies and eventually had a successful career as a recognised engineer in London. He was back in the city for a few days on official business but never thought that he would encounter such a painful and subdued memory.
In the midsection of the book, there were some retouched and colourised photos of Robi Shonkor, and while scanning them he could not help but realise that the man had the same distinctive blue eye that he had seen and fallen in love with at the Cofee House so many years back.
Summoning up all his courage the old engineer walked up to the charming author, a replica of her grandmother and mother to get a copy of the book signed. Its title read ‘The Harmonium’s Melody – A Tale of Love, Music, and the Enduring Spirit of Kolkata during a Time of Change’ by Adrita Kumari Mookherjee. The author neither had her grandmother’s green, nor her mother’s blue, but an unusual light brown, the same colour as the old engineer’s eyes.
Copyright © 2024 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
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Aum Shanti
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May the Peace also be with you.
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Nice 👍
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Thank you for liking this short story.
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After a long while…very nice. Thanks.
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Yes, it was a break from writing for more than a year.
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Thank you Ned. So glad that you like my story.
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Thank you so much Ned for alway promoting my stories.
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Lovely to read one of your stories again.. thoroughly enjoyed it.. thank you.. 💛🌼💛
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Thank you so much, so glad to have got back to writing. Treasure your appreciation.
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so glad to read your stories again!👍🏼🙏🏼❤️🙏🏼
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My peasure sir. Happy to be able to restart the writing process.
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i’m glad that you are writing again , especially these magical stories💞✨
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It’s been a while since you shared one of your stories 🙂
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Yes, I had not been able to write for more than a year. Glad to have been able to start writing again.
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BEN TORNATO.
BUONA DOMENICA
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Thank you so much.
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A TE TRISHIKH
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Extremely beautiful Harmonium for sure. Mesmerising story telling and enjoyed every bit. I was wondering what made you missing WP pages ? Welcome back and looking forward to read dreams of Bengal . Happy Sunday and cheers.
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Your comment makes my day. So glad that you liked this little melodious tale. Yes, I am back, there will be more stories in the coming days.
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🌷🌞✨🌿🍀✍️✍️🙏
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Welcome back . Hope Shanti 🙏🏽🙏🏽
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Thank you.
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Excellent!
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Thank you so much. Glad that you liked my story.
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Sweet story! I’d just been thinking of you. Even though I’m signed up to receive your posts via email, WP hasn’t sent me any after “The Climber”…until this one! I wish WP was more reliable.
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Hi Katelon, so nice to reconnect after such a long time. This is the 4th story after “The Climber.” I had taken a break of more than a year from writing. Hopefully I will be writing more in the coming days.
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I will have to catch up on those other 3 stories. I wish WP was more reliable. It makes me wonder how many are not getting the posts I occasionally write, too….and wondering how many blogs I follow aren’t showing up in my email inbox.
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I know these problems are there, we just have to live with and navigate them as long as we are using WP. Perhaps that’s why I have seen many bloggers migrate to other services over the years.
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Once again you have captured the intricacies of the human condition, how accidental and insignificant events can evolve into wondrous impressive
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Dear old friend, so good to hear from you once again. Am so happy that my latest story stirred your emotions. It’s really rewarding to get back to writing these little tales from the Indian sub continent.
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Nicely done. I will have to look and see what a harmonium is!
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It’s like a mini piano. Thanks for liking my story. Always treasure appreciation.
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I went and looked them up. What a fascinating instrument. It was designed to be smaller than a traditional keyboard, and to sit on the floor, because that’s how Indian music is played. Love it! Great use in the story. I’m a woodworker, so old instruments are fascinating to me. I don’t know if it’s true for harmoniums, but wooden instruments are often glued together with hide glue, because it’s water soluble. That way they can be taken apart for repairs.
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I think traditionally hide glue was used and must still be used by selected craftsmen, but most modern craftsmen must have shifted to modern glues. I am so glad that you liked my story and the fact that it introduced you to this beautiful instrument. Nothing makes my day better than when someone enjoys one of my stories, learns something from it, and finds interesting facts from it.
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Welcome back! So glad to see your post.
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Thank you so much Rebecca, it is satisfying and fulfilling to get back to writing.
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He’s back with a splash! I was wondering as the story began if RS were that particular musician, who also fathered Norah Jones. Well crafted.
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The character resembles the star you are talking about, but my story is just fiction.
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Within the realm of the possible, which adds to its magic.
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Very true indeed.
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Good to see you again! Such a wonderful story!
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Thank you so much. So happy to have been able. To make a comeback. Glad that you liked the story.
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Agree, great to hear your stories again. ❤
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Thank you. Always a pleasure to hear from you too.
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Your short stories takes one on a literary ride,in real I ended up seeing multiple places of Calcutta.Charminar cigarette, Albert Hall..Kali Ghat,Kasai Tala and what a touching story.
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Glad that I could take you through this kaleidoscope through the City of Joy. Treasure your appreciation.
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Thank you so much for sharing my story with a larger audience.
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I was very excited to see that you had gifted us with another of your stories, but I postponed reading it until I had a peaceful moment to truly relish it. I was not disappointed! Such a wonderful love story on the background of the historical music scene of Calcutta.
I loved the sacrifice that Dia made to get Abir down to earth again. I just read somewhere that the love one feels for each other will always exist, no matter if they are together or not, even if one of them is dead. I love the thought. It was much better expressed, of course, than I am doing it here.
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Dear Stella, so good to hear from you. Am really glad that this story of mine also appealed to you. I always treasure your appreciation.
You are absolutely right about love, it never extinguishes. Even after couples are long gone, somewhere somehow their love remains in this world, through stories, genes, and perhaps simply in the air.
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Have you ever heard of the term “Third Place”? I just wrote about this idea in my latest blog.
Your story here reminds of the wonderful stories and artifacts I will find if I take the time to explore lesser known places in my travels.
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That sounds interesting, I will certainly read about it in your blog. Am glad that my stories appeal to you. Always such a pleasure to hear from you.
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Enchantingly lovely. 💜
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Thank you Carol. Much appreciate your appreciation for my story.
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Nice story. Well compared🙏
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Thank you Sunith. So glad to hear from you. Glad that you liked the story.
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Namaskar!
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Namaskar, and greetings of the day to you.
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It’s great to see you post again 🙂
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Thank you so much Vishakha. It was very challenging to rekindle but really worthwhile and rewarding.
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I can completely relate!
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🙏
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BUONA GIORNATA
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A great day to you too friend.
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🙂
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Glad to see you back writing after a break. Hope you are well and re-energized.
Best Wishes
Kevin
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Am glad to be back too.
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Welcome back! 🙂
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Thank you. Always treasure our friendship.
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Bonjour je suis là pour te souhaiter une agréable semaine
A une personne que j’apprécieQue tout, en ce jour te soit joie de grande beauté
Ce matin au levé du jour sera une journée pour venir saluer tous mes amis amis Que ce beau jour vous soit d’une douceur infinie Beau comme un beau poème Une belle journée qui a pour thème L’amitié
Bise amicale Bernard
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Have a great day Bernard.
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Beautiful story! always have a touch of Bengali feeling . Where were you so long ? Are you okay?
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Hi Priti, yes I have been unable to write for a while. I am back now. Thank you so much for appreciating my story. I am writing another story with a connect to Durga puja – will complete and release soon.
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Ok. How are you now ? I will wait for your next story. Stay blessed 🙏
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Always a pleasure to share a great story.
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💐
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Fabulous! So evocative – well done, Linda xx
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Thank you for appreciating.
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My absolute pleasure! 🌞
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Thank you so much for appreciating.
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This is such a consuming story- so beautifully written- so nicely worded. Amazing!
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Thank you so much Sarah. Nothing makes my day better than receiving a line of appreciation for one of my stories. So glad that you liked this take of mine.
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Mon ami Amie, bonjour ou bonsoir
A travers ce message, je t’envoie ma plus belle image,
Celle d’un sourire radieux qui réchauffe le cœur
Et fait briller le soleil même dans les jours les plus sombres
Le soir que les étoiles illuminent et réchauffe ta demeure
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Thank you so much.
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Fine work!
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Thank you so much. Glad that you liked my story.
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Bonjour, mon Ami, Amie
Je t’envoie un sourire
Un geste , la tendresse
Une qualité de la douceur
Un mot d’amitié sincère
Un espoir surtout la santé
Un rêve, du bonheur
Avec ce cocktail d’amitié
je viens te souhaiter
Une très bonne journée ou soirée
Une belle fin de semaine
Ainsi qu’un bon WEEK END
Un ballon rempli de bisous
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Thank you. Have a great week.
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Very nice
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Thank you so much. So glad that you liked my story.
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😍
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Thank you.
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BONJOUR
Une envie de venir te lire
Que ta journée soit remplie de sourires, de rires et de bonheur
Je te souhaite une journée remplie de surprises agréables
Que ta matinée soit fraîche comme la rosée
Ton après-midi brillant comme le soleil
Ta soirée douce comme la lune
Bise BERNARD
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Have a great day.
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💜💜💜
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BUONA DOMENICA
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Season’s greetings.
Nice to see your blogs again.
Would you know when, and who harmonium got invented?
My earlier blog page was discontinued.
Welcome to visit my new blog.
http://www.etc4travel.wordpress.com
Thanks 🙂
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Nice to hear from you Saif. Will certainly visit your new blog. No I am not very sure about when the harmonium was invented, there are different theories about it.
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From the spiritual undertones of ancient poets to the revolutionary zeal of modern creators, Bengali poets have profoundly shaped the literary and cultural identity of the region. Their works not only reflect the evolution of Bengali literature but also capture the essence of Bengal’s history and ethos. This literary tradition continues to inspire and influence generations of writers, ensuring its enduring relevance in the global literary canon.https://www.indianetzone.com/bengali_poets_west_bengal
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Thank you for enjoying my story.
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They are wonderful, harmoniums. I like them very much. Often I think to myself about the ‘biographies’ of particular musical instruments. Their shiny youth, their years of sitting in closets or pawn shops or sometimes repair shops. their transitions on occasion to new owners with fresh enthusiasms, and so on. Nice story.
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Very true, I always think about autobiography of inanimate things, their birth, journey, transformation, and end. It’s a really subject. Glad that you liked my story. Appreciation always makes my day.
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You are a wonderful writer. I wondered what happened to you as I stopped getting your stories. I realize life can get in the way. I have learned you went private so I have requested admission to your publications. Have a wonderful week. Sincerely, Denise
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So nice to hear from you after such a long time. Sorry for the late reply, yes you are right, life got in the way of my writing, but I think about writing every single day, so I will certainly make a comeback. My stories are open for all, I will check if any private options have been activated by mistake. Take care, have a great day.
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