On Playing the Violin

I breathe with trepidation as I approach the case on the sofa. Pulling the zip open, the wood of the violin gleams beneath the fluorescent light, the bow seeming taut as it hangs on to the top of the case. Removing the neck’s velcro bindings, the strings hum discordantly, loosened and cringing as time and changing air have their fun at my expense. The bottom resting on my diaphragm, one hand grips the joining neck as the other twists and arranges the tuning pegs, notes sliding across the air and through the hollow wooden body. Coming as close to a perfect set of singing strings as my hands and straining ears would allow, the violin is set down with its neck rest striking black against the rustic wood. The bow in its ebony hawthorn - as I imagine it to be - is the same. A few twists to tighten or loosen, and its readiness is near completion. Just the application of the fracturing resin is left, its smell faint as I rub it across the bow’s hair, only to return in full force as I run it across the strings, and I am lost in sound. 

The neck rest sits on my collarbone and my right hand raises the bow to the yet silent strings. My left’s fingertips itch with memory, the callouses demanding softer skin to remember the tiny prices we pay for art. I breathe slow and deep, and favourite melodies tumble from my mind and flow into my fingertips. Resolute, I sing with my hands and play.

Fingertips gallop unmoving across the neck ending closest to the pegs. Tumulting notes weave and wave through the air to form systemic melodies, entire scarves of ascending and descending patterns, aaroh and avroh. Compositions race across the room as my entire being flows into my fingertips, all focus on where my fingers have to go, how my bow glides across metal to produce melody. Wooden sirens hold no candle to sea-faring ones, and I try my best to keep my fingertips from faltering. The powdery scent of resin fills my senses, and I play on, lest my fingers falter and my callouses fail me in their years of construction. There is a reason the violin is called a blind instrument: no frets, no markings, no aides to guide you through the narrow stretch of wood where you decide your song. You have only your intuition, your teachings, and faith in your practiced fingertips. 

The song pulls at my heartstrings as my body waxes and wanes with each up and down bow. The melody becomes tides and I am lost in its tumult. 

I open my eyes. The violin rests on my collarbone and my bow hangs from my hand by my right side. The song has ended, and I breathe in slow, exhaling the need from my body. The song is over, and my fingertips itch with memories of the rehearsals I had with my friends in student amphitheatres late into the dawn. The cold of the open air and the blanketing heat of sweat and body warmth as we had run-throughs of entire arrangements over and over. The memories carry themselves, even though strings break, and bow hair falls apart. Humming tunes and ragas under my breath, I return the violin to its case, where it shall wait. 

The song has ended for the violin, but not for me.