I walked quietly on the unmade path littered with a zillion fallen leaves. There was a slight drizzle, and the only sound I could hear was the one my shoes made: a peculiar swooshing sound unknown to those used to walking on lifeless gravel. I turned to see a blanket of mist behind me; lithe charcoal-black tree trunks swayed in the cool mountain air. Suddenly I felt lonely; with only my thoughts for company. A decade often seems like a lot of time, but it wasn’t enough to change this place.

Whistling nervously I surveyed the landscape for familiarity. I stopped only when I saw that house emerge out of the ghostly shadows.  It looked different to me; a lot different from the house of my memories. My legs shook with every step I took; it’s the cold I told myself. I sat on a wet bench a few yards from the now jaded gates of the house. On an impulse I searched the backrest for graffiti. I felt at ease when I saw a faded ‘J’ with 23 Apreel 1967 scribbled on it. I traced the J with my fingers: Not much has changed after all. Closing my eyes I thought about the times I’d spent here. In a Victorian villa tucked away in a leafy, quiet corner of the world.

Teenaged legs walked briskly on the driveway that led to a grilled door. It was a glorious day; the sun was out and the dry summer wind raised a ruckus every time it rustled past the leaves. It was certainly not a day to be spent indoors like a wimp. I carried a rather heavy case in one hand and a bow in another.

Once at the door I wiped my sweaty brow with the sleeve of my shirt and knocked politely on the timber door. I could hear strains of music from the other side. I knocked again, a little furiously this time. The music stopped, and the sound of slippers steadily approaching the door filled the afternoon air. The door opened with a creak; everything seemed musical out here.

‘Weird,’ I murmured.

‘Ah! Joshua. There you are! And poor Jessie said to me…when was that…yes of course… at last Sunday’s mass!...that not even in the name of the good lord would you come knocking on my door!’ she motioned with her hands for me to come in.

‘My mom knows me more than you do Mrs. D’sa,’ I replied wryly as I trailed her into the living room, the violin and the bow in hand.

‘And still I see you here sonny boy; care to explain?’

‘Well, she wants me to learn the violin.’

‘You don’t?’

I shrugged my shoulders. She walked into the kitchen without a word. I surveyed the room; it had a very high wooden ceiling. The paint on the walls was peeling; somewhere I could see traces of wall paper. On one of the walls was a collage of many photographs, crowded with people of varying ages. Mrs. D’sa was in some of them. The house though was not that crowded: besides the furniture. In a corner stood a short grand piano, its pedals glistening in a shaft of sunlight that filtered in through the huge window. On a stool nearby lay a full-size violin its strings as taut as taut can be.

Mrs. D’sa walked into the living room tray in hand.

‘Joshua, care to have lemonade?’ with this she handed me a glass, which I readily gulped down for I was thirsty. As I finished the lemonade she walked toward a table and picked up a dog-eared book.

‘This is Michelangelo Abbado’s Tecnica dei suoni armonici. Book number two from his five volume work. You know what it is about?’

‘How to make lemonade?’ I rolled my eyes.

‘Yes, in a way,’ she flipped it open and continued, ‘music is indeed lemonade for the one who is thirsty…thirsty for life.’

I saw her face lit up as she launched into a lengthy soliloquy about what music meant to her. Her hazel eyes twinkled as she talked about the time she played at the town center as a kid on Christmas Eve. She ran her fingers through her graying hair and fiddled with a huge ring on her middle finger. I heard her name names like Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart.

‘…and so Joshua would you love to be a virtuoso?’

‘A what?’

‘A virtuoso. Someone who’s exceptionally good at music. Your mom will be so proud of you! Don’t you think?’ she gushed.

‘Like I care,’ I said nonchalantly staring blankly at her. All the while my eyes looked for that pair of suitcases. The town talked that Mrs. D’sa kept a pair of suitcases packed with everything one required to travel abroad at a short notice. The womenfolk gossiped at corner shops and in the church. Some claimed her only son was in the UK, while some others claimed he was in Bombay. The boys in my school would often tell me that he was a brave soldier who died fighting the enemy in Indochina.

If indeed he was dead I saw no point in saddening her by asking about him; now that she was happiness personified.

‘Okay sonny boy, let me see what you have in that case of yours. Will you open it for me?’

I opened the case and lifted the violin carefully. My father reminded me at every available opportunity how expensive it was; so I treated it like a boil on my palm.

‘Ahh, that’s a fine piece of work! My father would have been pleased to see this one. He was a famous violin maker of his time, the great Marvin Pimenta,’ she said with naked pride, ‘Now now let me tune this one for you. Watch carefully boy, the next time you are the one doing it. Can you play the piano?’

I nodded in the negative.

‘Never mind!’

She turned the pegs in a series of fluid moves. Then she tuned what she called the ‘A string’ and then went on to tune the other three strings by bowing them in pairs at fixed intervals.  I must admit I was impressed.

‘Here boy, your violin is perfectly tuned. All set to make magic,’ she grinned, ‘I’ll play a fine piece for you from the La Campanella, a fine piece of work by Niccolò Paganini.’

She did not bother to explain what the foreign word meant or who the man was. She held the violin in position, rested her chin on the chin rest and bowed the strings. Strains of music filled the lazy air. I closed my eyes; I was euphoric. The music was mesmerizing. It was nothing like what I’d heard in my rather uneventful life so far. By the time it ended, tears streamed from my eyes. I fell in love with the violin; a love that never left me.

‘So boy, what do you say? Will you learn how to make magic with a mere four strings? Or rather play out in the sun with the boys?’

‘Mrs. D’sa I would love to…’

‘Sssh…but one should play as well my boy,’ she smiled back, ‘now let me see you play this.’ She handed me the violin and the bow. I nervously bowed the strings.

‘Joshua, we have a long way to go my boy,’ she summed up the essence of my impromptu performance.

Seasons changed. My voice broke; I could see a fine brush of hair sprout above my lip. Mrs. D’sa’s hair seemed to be getting grayer with every passing day. What remained unchanged was her passion for music, and my insatiable desire to master the violin. On sunny days and on days when the skies burst out, strains of melody would greet the ears of anyone who passed by Mrs. D’Sa’s villa.

One rainy morning as I made my way toward the driveway I saw a car parked in Mrs. D’sa’s porch. As I neared the door I could hear her laughing aloud. Two kids were chasing each other and a couple seated on the sofa listened to Mrs. D’sa play the piano. I was about to turn, when Mrs. D’sa called out to me.

‘Joshua my boy! Where in the name of the good lord are you going? Won’t you like to meet my grandchildren? Come on in.’

I’d never seen Mrs. D’sa happier; not even when she played the violin.

‘This is my son Osden. He works in the Royal Mail out there in the UK. That’s his wife Cecilia. And here,’ she grabbed one of the kids running about, ‘this is my sweet little darling Michelle and that is the very naughty Nathan. And this is Joshua, my music pupil, one who will be world famous pretty soon.’

I was deeply embarrassed and the tip of my ears burned. I shook hands with Osden and smiled politely at Cecilia. They seemed to be nice people, but I wondered why they left Mrs. D’sa alone. Especially these days when her health wasn’t the same it used to be.

‘Joshua, Osden has come to take me to the UK. We’ll be flying the day after tomorrow.’

 ‘I am happy for you Mrs. D’sa,’ I lied, ‘Don’t you forget me.’

‘Will you sonny boy?’

I nodded my head in the negative. The sound of a roaring engine brought me back to my senses. I stopped nodding. I was still on the bench, the air was cooler still, but the darkness was creeping in fast. I had to return to the hotel room before nightfall for I had to perform at a gala that night for the crème de la crème of the society.  

I walked up the drive, now claimed by weeds and wild flowers. It had cracked in several places. The once luscious lawn was now a fertile ground for anything that could grow. The villa still looked strong. Moss covered parts of it, while corroded metallic sheets cordoned off the once open balconies. I went around the house and reached the huge living room window. I could see a part of the glass shattered at the base of the window. As I peered through the broken glass I could see the short grand piano still standing where it always did. I shone my torch on it; its foot pedals glistened much the way they did in the sunlight a decade ago.

That night as I finished playing the La Campanella; the audience rose to its feet. I felt I saw Mrs. D’sa smiling somewhere in the sea of faces.