Having kept quiet for a long time, I return with a post that has little original substance. As I often do in my spare time, I was reading Radharaman Mitra's Kolikata Darpan Vol. II. The second volume was long out of print until very recently when Subarnarekha brought it back. In a chapter titled 'The House of the Two Italians' Radharaman quotes from Abanindranath Tagore's Jorasankor Dhare.
In Calcutta at the time, near Wellesley Square there was the Madrasa College. In front of it was a large pond and the house of Mr Gilardi, an Italian artist, stood just beside it. I visit him every morning to learn, paying the customary fee, pastel drawing and painting. He treats me like one of his family. I paint sitting on one side of the studio, while on the other side his wife feeds one of her sons milk. One or two of the children go to school; at times she is engaged in getting them ready. On occasion she goes to the market in my car. On the ground floor an elderly Italian music master by the name of Manzata resides with his daughter. Father and daughter lead a happy life. Every morning the girl plays the piano, her father plays the violin. The music floats in. Sitting upstairs I paint, listening to these Western tunes.
One morning, I was painting as usual, when the notes of the violin from downstairs reached me. I quite lost myself in the music. I stopped my hand from going on with the brushstrokes. This was not a tune that was playing. It was as if the violin itself was weeping. The music that day made it clear that the strings of the violin and its bow, had become one with the strains of his being. The piano was not playing alongside today. I said to Gilardi, "It sounds as though the violin is weeping today, Sir. Do you know why? It has never sounded like this before." The gentleman said, "Hush! The old man's daughter has left home yesterday and gone away. Haven't you heard?" That day I couldn't paint any more. After a while, quietly I came down. I could see in the room next to the staircase the elderly man sitting with his head bent, his violin rested against the back of his chair. Strands of his silver hair were floating in the breeze of the fan.
(My translation. I am unsure about the spelling of 'Manzata'. Radharaman writes that while Abanindranath has 'মান্ধাটা' ('Mandhata'), Sarala Debi has 'মাঞ্জাটা' ('Manzata'), and Indira Debi spells it 'মাঞ্জাতো' ('Manzatto').)This got me so interested that I started reading the book. There are certain passages in it that I would really love to share, but I'll take it easy with the translations and return later with those. It is available at dli.gov.in, which is also the source of many other fascinating and diverse books.
