Few weeks back my seven-year old and I went to a classical tabla performance. Before the concert the artist talked about his late father. He talked about his humble upbringing in a dusty village in Maharashtra. He recalled his father taking him to classical music concerts in Bombay – an overnight trip which they could barely afford. These concerts mostly extended late into the night, and they often missed the last train they needed to catch to get back home. At the train station his father scrambled the last remaining coins from his pocket to buy his son a meal while he remained hungry. Then they would both huddle together and sleep on the railway platform waiting for the train next morning.
While he remembered his late father his eyes welled, his lips quivered, and his voice cracked with emotion. Overwhelmed by memories he paused a moment, held his composure, and started the performance.
On our way back home that day, my son and I were talking about the performance. Sriram liked everything about the concert. He loved the front row seats, enjoyed all the numbers, was happy to see his friends there.
But there was one question that still lingered in his mind. “Why did he weep before the concert when he talked about his dad ?”