My Grandfather's Harmonium

By Sonali Kar

While rummaging through the dust-lined hall,
I caught a glimpse of the room—unkempt and forgotten—at the far edge of the house.
It had remained roughly kept since my grandfather passed away.

The once-vivid plastic paint had withered, tinged with grey mold along the edges.
The ceiling was nearly hidden under a blanket of cobwebs,
years tangled into silent knots.

Reformation is now essential;
renters are expected soon.

Through the dusty windows of that worn-out room,
just beneath the fallen shelf,
lay a hunked, shabby trunk—its lock torn down, its body bruised.
And yet, there wasn’t a single speck of dust on it,
as if it were the only cleaned occupant of that space.
Rightfully so,
it contained a few cherished belongings of my grandfather,
his handwritten notes, a shawl, and the faint, familiar scent I’ve always known.

It’s been fourteen years since Baba’s passing.
I was only six.
Frail, faint glimpses flicker—
the joy of school ending,
racing down the same old street,
seated at the front handle of his vintage Atlas cycle,
his most loyal ride all through adulthood.

But the image that dawned on me, clear and peculiar,
was of the sturdy harmonium.
Evenings were marked by him,
cross-legged on his black, singly-folded bed,
the harmonium beside him—
teaching me each rhythm, key by key,
his hand firm on the back rim,
chanting the Hanuman Chalisa.

Though the harmonium came into his life only in his late fifties,
it now feels more like him
than anything else he left behind.

The faded brown wood, with its carved edges and gentle curves,
resembled the worn, slightly oversized shirt he wore—
paired with those long, bell-bottomed pants
that had long since retired with the 80s.

The grey-and-white keys reminded me of his hair—
mostly silver, with strands of black still defiant.

The breath of the bellows carried the sound of his voice,
the echo of the hymns and bhajans
he sang at the kirtans in the local Ram Mandir.

The reed board, once polished, had now dulled—its tone now resembling the dusky shade of his skin,
and somewhere in its stillness,
I see the soft orange tilak he wore proudly on his forehead,
and the love for art he never spoke of,
but my grandmother always did.

The harmonium was the last piece of him
left behind before he left—
and ever since, the keys haven’t sung the same.
Or maybe... the tune has changed,
because the hands that played it are no longer here.

And on occasional nights, he pays a quiet visit—
appearing in vivid dreams,
engaged in soft conversation,
chatting away with the family
as if he had never left in the first place.

And when I wake,
I think of the harmonium.
It sits there, quiet.
A reminder
that he never really went away.