I seem unable to write anything from Riddhima's P.O.V đ I guess Vansh just fascinates me more. His life, and his relationships, that sadly remained unexplored. A very random OS, but do leave your thoughts, please. They would be greatly appreciated! đł
RiAnsh OS | Love Sonata |
Vansh Raisinghania loved playing the piano. It was a love that Vansh didnât like sharing or talking about with others, for it was something that was deeply personal, and deeply painful, almost like a part of his genetic makeup. No one- not even his beloved wife who everyone said knew him best- could fully fathom what importance piano-playing had in her husbandâs life. It was a love affair that had started early in his life when he was barely a boy of six or seven, and that had shaped and molded him almost as much as his parentsâ death had. Looking at the cold, aloof, quietly menacing man, who was rarely seen in public limelight despite being one of the most influential business moguls around, one could never guess that he was as astonishingly prodigious with the delicate keys of a piano, as he was with the hard, metallic trigger of a gun. And, Vansh preferred it that way. He preferred that most of the people didnât know about this little passion of his that he shared with his father. Probably the only thing that he got from his father apart from the sprawling, and debt-ridden Raisinghania Empire-for Vansh was mostly the spitting image of his mother both in looks and mannerisms.
Ajay Raisinghania was a man who was mainly known in the society for his fondness for fine, expensive Scottish and Irish whisky, and his Steinway. Those who knew him, knew, that the bespoke concert grand, manufactured in the original Steinway & Sons factory in New York was the Raisinghania Sr.âs first love, his first baby, and his most prized possession. The divine beauty had occupied the centre-stage in a special alcove by the hugely magnificent foyer of the Raisinghania mansion, and had always been the cynosure of all the eyes whenever there had been some rare party thrown in the mansion. People had envied the man, as much as they had coveted the concert grand. Little Vansh had neither understood nor cared about the instrument, or why his father valued it so much, until his father had once sat him on the piano bench beside him, and had laughingly told him about the pianoâs make, while simultaneously playing some tune that had seemed too complicated to Vanshâs untrained ears. He had told Vansh that the piano was a specially commissioned, bespoke concert version of the Alma-Tadema grand piano from 1887. That the piano had been inspired from the notable Art Case, and had been modified as per the instructions and wishes of one of Vanshâs ancestors in the early 1890s. It was a stunning piece of art made of ebony, with rose gold and mother of pearl inlays. The casing was made entirely of East Indian Rosewood, and had curved gilded legs molded by some American sculptor. Vansh had not understood half of the words being spoken, or their meanings until much later, but he had looked at the joy and pride in his fatherâs eyes while speaking of the piano, and had wanted to learn the huge, confusing instrument from his father. Whenever the Sr. Raisinghania would be home, and not on one of his uncountable business trips, one could always see the father-son duo sitting at the piano in the foyer, while gentle strains of piano could be heard all over the mansion. Chopin, Mozart, Debussy, Bach, Beethoven, George Gershwin, Stevie Wonder. Old-school Bollywood. Pop, rock, jazz, classical, electronic â Vanshâs father had taught him all ever since he was a kid. Vansh remembered staring unblinkingly at his father at such times, who would be intermittently sipping his favourite single malt, while his fingers rapidly flew across the keys.There would be times when his mother would join them in one of their sessions, sitting on the other side of his father on the bench, or leaning over the piano-top, rapt and fascinated, smiling at them both with heart in her eyes. His father would play some fast, preppy, romantic song, and his mother would tap her foot or sway on her feet. Or his father would sometimes give him the reins while he twirled his wife around. They all would laugh, and sing, and dance, and for Vansh nothing could have ever gone wrong in that moment. For him, those moments signified some of the greatest of joys that he had ever experienced in his young life, rivaled in intensity only by the happiness that his wife brought him many years later.
After his parents had died, and Vansh had been forced to grow up too soon, he had often found refuge in the Steinway. He would sit on the same bench his father used to occupy, play the same keys that his father once played, drink some superior Irish single malt like his father used to drink, and for that short moment in time he would be transported back to the happy, old days when all was right in his world. Sometimes he would play in the dead of night, after a tiring day at work, when the entire household, including the staff, would have retired to their beds. Sometimes he would fiddle with the keys during a rare day at home when the loneliness and nostalgia would hit hard. But, everytime he played, he would be alone- often lonely- with no one to sit beside him or lean against the top. It could possibly be the bittersweet memories associated with his piano-lessons, or the undeniable, mad love his parents had shared before his mother had died, and his father had remarried, that Vansh could never again play the slow, romantic tunes his father had played for his mother. The old, loyal servants who had been in the family since decades talked about how the walls of the mansion never reverberated anymore with laughter and romance ever since Bade sahab had died and only Vansh baba played the piano. They lamented amongst themselves that all they could hear now were tunes with melancholic, macabre undertones that reminded them of funeral dirges and processions. It was not that Vansh baba didnât play the piano as well as his father did. He just didnât seem to love it as much as he did before. It seemed like he was still in mourning even after all these years, you know? They said. Poor kid, they thought. Suffered so much at such a young age. Guess we would never get those old days back, huh? They muttered, while shaking their heads in sympathy, resigned to watching the kid they had seen since his birth, grow up to tragically become an angry recluse. Which was why when one grey, overcast Sunday morning they heard some discordant, cacophonous notes coming from the piano, that resembled the bleating of a goat, they were amazed and confused. Vansh baba never played this bad, they thought. A couple of the older, braver ones-whose curiosity overpowered their fear of getting caught- peeked around the corner of the alcove and saw Riddhima bitiya sitting on the bench beside Vansh baba, almost banging the keys in a bid to play some tune. âBaby, you are killing me. Stop it! This sounds like the desperate mewling and wheezing of some dying cat.â They heard Vansh laughingly say to his pretty wife, both his hands simultaneously covering his ears. He was laughing! And if that wasnât enough he gently pried her hands off the keys, and began playing a tune, the likes of which they hadnât heard in years. It began slowly, gently, then became a bit quick and jumpy, and then slowed down again to something sweet, and romantic. âWhat is this called?â Riddhima whispered- as awed and entranced by the performance as they all were, while still looking from their vantage point. âItâs Clair de Lune by Debussy. It means moonlight. It always seems to play in my head whenever I look at you.â Vansh replied, turning his head to lovingly smile at her, while his nimble fingers continued to expertly fly across the piano. Those servants looked at the rare sight before them, a scene they had thought they would never get to witness, and then retreated slowly smiling amongst themselves. All was right in their little world. The mansion would once again echo with the dulcet tones of love and laughter. The beloved piano that had probably forgotten everything but the sad, mournful dirges, was playing love songs again.
AN- Debussy's Clair de Lune is a classic, and a very beautiful piece. Give it a try if you feel like it. Here's a link to a cover of it-
Shiv Shakti
