To a Seasoned Veteran, What Must I Seem Like?

It’s no full-body workout, but without fail, sweat trickles down the nape of my neck whenever I find myself seated in front of a piano. Like some odd physiological function, after a couple of warm-ups and pieces, I’d perspire through my shirt, and the nooks between my fingers would be moisture-laden. No matter the temperature outside, the image of a person running through their notes as if they were running a marathon wouldn’t be far from an accurate description. 

It was no different that day. A distant relative accommodated us overnight as we were visiting their city. After pleasantries had been exchanged, food had been eaten, and rooms had been assigned accordingly, we settled in for the night, warm in each other’s presence. 

They happened to have a piano in their living room. Well-maintained, fine-tuned, it was regal in its own right. My parents oversold my piano skills, and I was hastened to the very seat that I would come to stare down at in muted disbelief. 

They told me to play. Show them what I’ve learnt from my lessons. Being a classically trained novice, I settled for some Burgmuller and hoped that it pleased their ears. It was my favorite piece, one I never grew tired of playing simply because of how happy I felt when I did its arpeggios and staccatos. 

After a few minor hiccups (a wrong note or two), my little performance came to an end. The room was silent long enough for me to wonder if they were still basking in the notes that lingered in the air. 

“That’s cute. Pretty obvious you’ve memorized it though. Back in my days, we improv-ed on everything,” spoke the voice of an elder relative who turned out to be an improvising pianist, frequenting public spaces like bars and restaurants for gigs.

I didn’t think much of this comment past its surface level meaning (we did play vastly different genres of piano) until I looked past their shoulder and saw my parents’ expressions. Sheepish, humbled, their faces burned in what seemed to be embarrassment. 

“She’s young and still learning her way through classes. You, on the other hand, are on a completely different level,” was what they reasoned with the elder relative.

As they made more excuses for my lack of skill, saying how some years ago I threw a ‘little tantrum’ about wanting to give up piano and actually stopped for a few months when I was 9, I felt, more than heard, the rabbiting pulse of my heart. The usual sweat running down my hunched back found itself coating my clammy hands as well. As I slowly opened and closed my fists, trying to regulate my emotions, the action couldn’t stop their words from swimming tauntingly in my vision. The cool leather of the seat was what greeted me after a moment lost in thoughts, and by then, they had rambled on about how marvelous it was to perform impromptu for a living. 

Truly, it was marvelous how that relative excelled at their genre of piano. After my little stunt, they took to the piano seat and performed an impromptu piece that had everyone on their feet the moment it came to an end. They were an inspiration for a growing pianist like me, who had much left to discover and behold.

That was why it was uncomfortable and unfair. I suddenly did not want to be in the presence of my parents, whom I trusted would speak kindly of me to relatives I barely knew. Out of all the people in the room, they knew best how I pushed and pulled with my instrument. Alas, if playing the piano were a marathon, then I had run my current personal best, yet still paled in comparison to the seasoned veteran runner showered with praise upon praise. 

Now that I’ve put this particular memory into words, I hope that as time goes by, my brain overrides the hurt I felt with the ecstasy of being able to read and interpret classical pieces, a unique hobby that was a place of comfort I couldn’t resist coming back to. 

Though the spark for many of us musicians may have dimmed in the face of self-doubt and external pressures, it can always be rekindled with gentle hands and an open heart. Let this be a reminder that no matter what, our instruments are ours, and that our love for them cannot be taken away – just buried beneath our fears.