The explanation of a gift (:

Dear Readers,

This essay, originally intended to be the 100th post essay, was begun some time ago but only completed very recently, and tkwek's publishing it here today. As with all of tkwek's stories, this one isn't about any one person in particular, it's characters are based on a medley of people tkwek has met and been influenced by. The 'Concertmistress' here is definitely not our beloved Lee Ning, whose love of music is yet unparalled in the confines of the music circle familiar to tkwek. Nor our equally beloved conductor Mr. Lim, who continues to guide us with strictness tempered with care.

As a personal note, yes, this essay is meant to explain a gift.

In Belmont is a lady richly left;
The Straight Times Editor

The Puppet

She hardly had time to look at the tiny ball of wool that was placed gently in the middle of her palm. Muttering a quick “Thank You!” and a generic “That’s so cute!” to the third-desk boy who’d just given it to her, she hurriedly dropped it onto her front-desk stand and began setting up for rehearsal.

Just another gift from a guy.

Or was it?

Of course it wasn’t ‘just another gift’. The boy who’d given it to her had been her best friend for some time. A year her junior, she was pretty sure there never had been anything amorous between them and thus could confide most of her secrets in him. After all, he was pretty mature and had, on occasion, given her a bunch of helpful advice.

But it being a busy Saturday afternoon, and she being the busy concertmistress, she didn’t exactly have the time to examine that little ball of wool just yet. And neither was she in the mood to begin philosophizing about the meaning behind the gift – every gift he’d given her so far had been undeniably cryptic; she’d even had to beg him for the message they contained sometimes.

Not today, though. She was expected to begin tuning the orchestra. In a few mechanical movements, her hands, guided by perfect-pitch, twisted the tuning-pegs into submission and before long the ‘A’ was sounding in waves across the orchestra – kicked off by the oboe, taken over by her and spreading up the registers. Turning her violin towards each section in turn, she couldn’t help but sigh at those familiar sights – sights that once used to anger her but now only incited a dull amusement: those boys chatting incessantly in the second violin back desk, those new cellists who had not yet attained the stature of their generous instruments and needed help to tune up, and those violists who somehow could never remember to get their mutes. And even the first violins – why couldn’t she ever get full attendance in the section that was her pride and joy?

With a tired nod to the conductor, she sat down and dumbly flipped open her scores. Rows after rows of familiar notes jumped at her, piercing her eyes with their little staccato dots. Slur lines drooped floppily across the page like streamers after a failed party, and rests seemed to usurp the place of whole notes every once in a while. Trick of the light? She couldn’t be sure.

The piece began. It might once have been her favorite piece, she couldn’t really remember now. Three months into intensive concert preparation, she couldn’t believe she’d actually once loved those runs, neither could she understand the adrenaline perk she was quite sure she’d received when she first played that left-hand pizzicato. It was all so wooden now, so black-and-white. The notes faded onto the paper, her eyes no longer willing to trace that oft-tread path, and she willed her fingers to play on as they were used to.

After all, those major exams were around the corner, and those notes now held even less joy for her than the dryness of her chemistry notes. And having taken her violin Licentiate with distinction, the prospects of going overseas to take a double-degree at Johns Hopkins were looking up, and she might very well soon find herself in the world-famous Julliard School…

“Concertmistress!” A yell from the conductor snapped her back to her senses. To her horror, she realized that the rest of the orchestra had already put down their instruments and were looking at her with a mix of shock and puzzlement. Sheepishly, she too put down her violin.

“Concertmistress, I can’t stand anymore of this. You’ve been more and more distracted lately. Are you feeling alright?”

She nodded dumbly. Alright? Physically, yes, but as to how much more stress she could take, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.

“Then is your school going okay? Your music’s very wooden today. Do you need an excuse from rehearsal? I can understand…”

She shook her head this time. However many more trips she’d have to make back to this rehearsal room, she was pretty certain she didn’t want to miss any of the practices.

“Then I think, concertmistress, you aren’t enjoying the music enough!”

The words hit her like a sharp slap on the cheek, stinging her bare skin. Sitting where she was, with a hundred pairs of eyes on her, she almost reeled in horror. Music had always been her first and only love, and just the thought of how much she’d given up to enjoy the ecstasy of mastering an instrument sent a delicious shiver down her spine. How could he – a fellow music lover – accuse her of not loving the very thing, no, the very being, that gave her life?

Then the sad realization came, feeling by contrast like a wet sandbag thumping her on the back. If she loved music, why was she slowly dreading the two hours of private practice every day that once formed the core of her routine? If she loved music, why did she come to resent talking to fellow musicians about inspirations and new compositions? If she loved music, why were thoughts about algorithms and valence electrons slowly but surely chewing into her thought-space during music lessons? And above all, if she loved music, why wasn’t she enjoying it?

She knew herself, and within moments, a tear condensed at one corner of the eye-bags that exhaustion had loaded around her dark pupils. She didn’t want to lose that special love – somehow it felt like she’d forgotten this special emotion for so long, letting so many stray thoughts occupy its sacred domain, that it was no longer a part of her, neither was she any longer a part of it.

The conductor turned with a sigh back to the orchestra, and she lowered her gaze in submission and sorrow. Another trick of the light – there seemed to be many of those today – led her glance to the little ball of wool that lay miserably on her music stand. Somehow, it had unfurled from the scrunched-up roll of fibers that she’d turned it into, and revealed its original shape. Lying there, pure white wool against ebony music stand, she could make out, rather clearly, what it was.

It was a finger puppet. It was a little goat – or was it a llama, or a sheep, or an alpaca – she couldn’t be sure. She quietly reached down to feel it. Warm and soft to the touch, it brought a tiny tingle of happiness to her heart, reminiscent of the joy she’d once felt before each and every rehearsal. Looking at the goat – or llama, or sheep, or alpaca – with its embroidered woolen mouth grinning widely at her, she had a sudden flash of inspiration. Something that made her sit up and go: “Oh yeah!” A thought leapt across a few synapses and drew a connection between the emotional and the creative halves of her mind – instantly comparing the finger-puppet to the joy of music which she was so lacking. Both had an opening into which she could fit, both weren’t complete without her, both were well within her reach and both brought her a sense of incomparable warmth.

That wall of bad memories from the past, inevitable pressures of the present, and heavy aspirations for the future, had been a cold stumbling-block between her and her music, and looking at the puppet, she knew at once that only by allowing the music to enter her, and by entering the music, could she and the music become one again. Just like her finger had to slip neatly within the puppet to control it, she had to put aside those rocks on her heart and climb comfortably into the music, taking a part of it with her and making it as naturally as she could. And being already blessed with hands to work her gift, she knew that what was left was her heart. Which only she could relieve of all its burdens. And set it free among the winds of music.

---

At once, her playing became much freer, and for the first time in months, she laughed during the rehearsal.

After the rehearsal, she felt a familiar presence on her left.

“Shall I explain your gift?”

“I think I’ve already explained it.”

They both smiled.