Cyrus Broacha

Feb 21 : The other day while I lay sleeping, my son emitted what may have been (but can’t be confirmed) a musical note. Although I wasn’t sure from which orifice it exactly escaped from, the wife was absolutely certain it was a musical note. Her explanation?

The note had a lyrical. "La" like quality. "La", as explained in the Medieval Musicians Almanac Volume II, is the universally accepted first note in music, across all languages except French where the note evolved into an extra La i.e "Lala". (This is supposedly because the French have more time on their hands than all other people put together.)

My wife, quite sure that we had an early Mozart on our hands, insisted we rush to the music shop and cash in on our son’s talent. This statement, of course, is quite a paradox, as the moment you set foot in the music shop, it’s the shop itself which does the cashing in. Off we went to Furtados, but first a word about Furtados.

Contrary to what right-wing parties may have you believe, the Furtados are the first family of Mumbai. They, for all practical purposes, invented Mumbai. They came and formed a settlement in the Dhobi Talao area, and then waited patiently for 237 years till they landed their first customer.

Thousands of years later, they are still the first name in the music business. Another strange contradiction as Furtados is really a last name.

As we entered the shop, I couldn’t help feeling I was on the set of Jurrasic Park.

The pianos on display were huge. One was so large it could have housed a family of eight. As the salesman stared at us, I realised that a show of positive body language was essential. I flipped open a heavy keyboard and decided to put on a little Horowitz for all around. Sadly, I forget about music’s cardinal rule, the law of diminishing returns.

As I flipped the piano lid, I didn’t anticipate how heavy it really was, and so it flipped right back on my hand.

Horowitz and two knuckles were shattered. The wife, who has only ever been in a good mood twice in the last 23 years, turned pale with embarrassment. As ice was administered to my ailing fingers, she did what she always does, when there is trouble. She distanced herself from me. Soon a young girl, all of nine-years and one-third my size, came and deftly opened the same piano lid with immaculate ease and started playing Handel’s Messiah. Her choice seemed to be sending me a clear message. As she finished triumphantly she threw a victorious gaze towards me. At that point I couldn’t tell what was louder, the clapping or the derisive laughing. As I sat in a corner nurturing my pride and my knuckles (and in that order), a huge telephone book was handed to me. As I turned the pages the telephone book turned into a piano catalogue. It featured on a conservative estimate 37,015 pianos. By leafing through it I learnt four important facts:

Pianos are more expensive than flats in south Mumbai.

Amongst the main differences is you can’t play a flat.

Pianos live up to great ages. The older ones are called Grands.

Pianos are highly social — they marry and produce children called babies, or more appropriately, baby Grands.

Then the most painful moment happened. The wife pointed to page 49 and a picture of 107-year-old Grand Piano. As she pointed out the features, I vainly tried to point out the price.

Dear Reader, I can’t share that price with you due to editorial constraints on distasteful and atrocious occurrences. All I will say is that on seeing the price I was immediately checked into the nearby Cama Hospital. After begging, pleading and many intravenous dinners I finally convinced the wife that we would start with something a little smaller than the Grand Piano.

In fact, quite frankly, I can’t wait to go back to Furtados and show that smug little girl my dexterity with the er… er... mother of all instruments. The er... excuse me… er, the er… tambourine.

By Cyrus Broacha