Therapeutic Notes, by Swapan K Banerjee

Trotting along the winding by-lanes with my friends in Varanasi, I suddenly strayed from the group. Strain of a morning raga drove me to a hole in the wall. My eyes misting up, I met an American flautist there.

Finding a kindred soul he opened up: “Years ago, when I lost my child, I couldn’t stay at home. Hitch-hiking, I landed here quite unplanned. One morning, feeling disconsolate, I heard someone playing Shehnai. Slowly my stone-heavy heart melted away. I then immersed myself and got dissolved into it. Now just the sight of this instrument acts as a balm …”

From: Friday Flash Fiction

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