Owning a thing

I played a tape today that I have had for seven years and never played once. I’ve come across it several times in my search-for-music missions, appealing its appropriateness, but never satisfying me of its rightness. You see this tape doesn’t actually belong to me. It was my friend’s…. who gave it to me a month before he died. It is strange and a little cold that it was the first thing that occurred to me when they told me he was dead; guilt for not returning his belongings on time. It was a thought that preoccupied the entire dry, dazed day that followed. I contemplated the propriety of returning his tapes to his family. I did not think they would know what to do with them, they had hardly known what to do with him. I also knew that if he had willed it he would have wanted me to have them, but still I would have liked to be sure. Like all things in his life Pappu’s death was strange and dramatic. He was found run down on a railway track. All the usual speculations made the rounds and all the inevitable conclusions were drawn. Someone said he seemed very happy when they met him that morning. I like to believe that was true.

So I was left with those tapes in my shelf, and no tears in my eyes. I was left with a vague cloud of guilt for being an ill-mannered borrower, for wilfully understanding less than I did, and giving less than I could and absolutely no more than I should. I thought I had been wise and kind, his death made me feel rude and miserly.

I was clearing my cupboard today when I played his tape on an exasperated impulse. Mehdi Hassan’s ‘Shahad. The tears did flow now. Less easily than they would for say an episode of Oprah Winfrey, but nevertheless they were there. They felt viscous and heavy and strained out my eyes. To be expected I suppose. They were old tears these… seven years old.

I hope I have let you rest at last, Vikram, by owning what you gave me.