“You don’t remember the person. Not entirely. The times they were not there. The times they spited you. The times they were irredeemable. Or you’d grow to hate them. To hate their memory. As much of a pastiche as the one you love.
“It. It’s better not to pretend you remember them whole cloth. That their memory is even more of a patchwork than the sides of themselves they presented.”
“That doesn’t explain the guitar.”
“No? Your uncle tried to teach me guitar.”
“Uncle Uddyam never plaid guitar… did he?” Kayam considered the instrument. He didn’t remember seeing such a thing when the two lived up the road. But, it looked like the sides had been shaved off – it might be possible to hide it in the rafters, out of reach.
He was glad Aunt Mina came back to visit. Even if… no. Perhaps that was what the advice was for. It was better to remember the years she was there that the times she hadn’t been. He was seventeen now… fourteen? Fifteen? He’d always expected them back. Both of them. That she had gone on an adventure to find him still alive.
“No. Your uncle…” she sighed, “Efren was Filipino. Spanish filipino. My second husband. Didn’t know a word of bengali when he got here. Probably learned ten when he died. At least he knew more English.”
“How did he get here?”
“Here… he never got here. He never made it out of Dhaka. I was of the opinion he was trying to get his strength back up, for the ocean trip back – there were no aeropanes then. But he found the opposite. At the hospital, were trying to find a translator for a language they weren’t sure about,” she shook her head, “his English had an accent, but I didn’t think it was that thick.”
“And this is his guitar? “
“This is MY guitar. His … I honestly lost track of it. It might have been donated. But, it was something to occupy him that didn’t force him to stand.”
Kayam pondered. He hadn’t seen many guitars up close, but was fairly sure one kept the strings on them even when one wasn’t anticipating playing. This question could wait a moment, though. “You married a man who could barely stand up?”
“I might have a thing for the displaced performer,” She rubbed under her nose, “He didn’t know how much longer he had, and there were legal considerations.”
“How long did he live after were you married? “
“Four months.” She calculated. “Almost five. It had been three, I think, that he’d laid in Dhaka for. Thankfully the priest didn’t require a conversion… i think he assumed that would come later.”
Kayam returned the guitar. Even if he had wanted to play, it was. In no state for it.
“Did …. since he was sick, did you two even try…?”
At the question, it was Uddyam’s face that came to mind, not Efren’s… a point that she knew the former would gain some pride from. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
Kayam shrugged. He remembered his aunt always treated him a bit more like a grown-up than his parents did. He had concluded it was her age – she survived from a time where children could not stay sheltered for so many years, no matter who’s children they were.
Or, perhaps, everyone was just too young to bother distinguishing.
There was a bit of stiring in the back of his mind. Kayam would probably cry. Later. When he had somthing else to focus on. When the mind could otherwise be quiet. Cry for someone he’d never known? Cry for poking at a wound he kept hoping was healed?
He wished his could just calm his mind and get it over with now. But that was not how things worked. Now he could not relax. The pause was too long.
Kayam’s voice betrayed him the slightest bit, “What songs did he teach you?”
“Hmm. Hmm? I don’t… I remember… he’d mouth the lyrics. I think his mouth went dry too quickly to sing them, but he’d still move his lips. Like-“
She proceeded to press the tips of her pointer, ring and middle finger into the string holder at the base of the guitar (Kayam would not have known to call it a bridge),and drug her hand around the length oh the guitar and it’s neck – hooking the fingers once, drawing the around again, hooking them again.
Of course he remembered somthing of his aunt’s stretching antics… weirdly practical, upon reflection, but still, to see it.
Mina didn’t tune her guitar in a normal way – twisting pegs to suit – instead se seemed to be tryinging to remember a feel, a proper tension. It took a moment, but as soon as she decided it was adequate, she played where she sat. She mouthed along with the tune… it seemed, incomplete. slow. He wondered if it was due to only having a pinky and thumb free to control the notes, or maybe her second husband had never been able to reach full speed himself.
Da da da dun da da (de) dun dun de dun
Da do de de de dun da da de dun
Maybe a chorus? It seemed to repeat. And repeat. Her lips seemed to follow a slightly different pattern – or perhaps it wasn’t a pattern at all. There were no words Kayam knew that fit to their flapping.
It ended. Kayam slipped his hands underneath him – clapping didn’t feel right.
“Yeah… Do you remeber this one, though?” The woman stood up, adjusting the guitar against her hip – it looked a little off, but it looked like somthing was missing – a shoulder strap of some sort? She was actually holding the instrument up with one distended hand.This was a ballad. Intentionally slow, more complete. And Kayam did seem to recognize it – from the radio a few years ago. Probably from a movie, the way things went, but…
He stopped that thought, realizing it would lead to Uncle Uddyam’s tent theater. He listened. He just listened. The tears were almost there.
His face betrayed him, it seemed. Mina switched to a different song. Foreign, Russian perhaps? It had more of a drumming to it, requiring cleaner notes. She started swaying, walking – It wasn’t that she was gaining confidence. She was trying to entertain. The next song was clearly American – one of the older rock bands. The notes came faster but went nowhere… or maybe, to another instrument that was not present. As she played she dipped backward, a technical trick, a stage trick, though the only eyes watching were his and any suspicious neighbors that were distracted from their routines. She bent so far back that he was sure this was one of the yoga tricks she had once taught his sister, a tripod of the head and feet – still playing. straightening out without a hand free to aid the balance.
Russian again. Her knees bent as she played and walked, eventually so close to the ground she had to lift her guitar tight under her armpit to keep playing it without bumping into it with her thighs – perhaps that was why she a bought such a thing one. For more tricks.
She gave one more flourish where she seemed to hop around the ground, her saree’s arse impossibly hanging just above the dust and grass (Somthing like a duck walk, though it was certainly cheating a little) – before ending with a few confident chords – standing and bowing.
Kayam still didn’t clap – but she could tell the energy had spilled over. The boy was shaking a little not sure what to do with it – so she offered an arm, and he quickly took her up in a hug.
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