George Harrison wrote While My Guitar Gently Weeps after his return from India. Maybe, like me, he visited Indian homes where guitars bought with passion ended up as decorative showpieces. He’s obviously not talking about his guitar — which belonged to the lead guitarist of the world’s most famous band. Even if one chord was played on it, the guitar would’ve called itself blessed and happily fed itself to termites.
I think George Harrison, through me, was talking about all the unplayed guitars lying in every third house I visit (yes, I’m doing a census). ChatGPT says 30,000–50,000 guitars are sold annually in Hyderabad. However, Raju Mallak from AV Musicals in Madhapur (I actually called the store — don’t ChatGPT everything, kids) says 500–600 guitars are sold each month. But I bet that the gap between guitars bought and guitars played is bigger than the income gap between the Indian middle class and the rich.
Here is the life story of one such guitar — touched only to clean, never to play. Hello. My name is Guitar. My caste is Indian rosewood. My parents are currently being rented by Furlenco by a live-in couple for 12 months — I guess that’s how long that relationship will last. My brother works as a chess set in a coffee shop. He gets played with often and is even left with tips. Family is doing well.
When they told me they’d make a guitar out of me, I stopped crying from the pain cut through my gut and immediately felt artistic bliss. My life is going to change, I thought. I will be creating music. The most beautiful thing man ever made. I shed the rest of my tears and was ready to roar. But like any musician’s journey, mine also didn’t take off that easy.
The guitar maker was quick and efficient. He made me in less than a week, but the sales and marketing guy was lousy. I was branded as ‘Givson’ — so that the legendary ‘Gibson’ wouldn’t feel insulted — and placed in the corner of the store. I lay there for a year, watching trained guitarists buy Yamahas and Fenders. I almost gave up. I thought I’d jump into a fire, but the store had a good fire extinguisher.
Then one fine day, a very, very single middle-class boy with extra money that month walked in after watching Salman Khan play guitar in Oh Oh Jaane Jaana, hoping to make me his new wingman.
The sales guy showed him a Fender, but this guy wanted something cheap — like his taste in music. Hence, I was sold.
The first week was amazing. Friends and relatives gave him motivation. Someone bought him a stand, a friend gave him his old guitar case, and one guy — who gave up guitar but learnt a little — sent the right YouTube link for online classes.
There I was — in the spotlight. This part of my life was called happiness, I thought.
The guy spent all day and night learning chords and showing off to his friends. I thought he was going to be India’s next Lucky Ali. He finally learnt one song, played it for a girl, got lucky with Ali-sha — and my career ended.
He tried playing again, but now it required effort. Complicated chords. Finger pain. Why would he do that? He already got the girl. So, he made me sit next to a lamp stand.
Now visitors come, strum non-existent chords and tunes, asking others, ‘Which song was that bro? Please guess.’ Some take photos with me and post them on Instagram with captions like #rockstar and #musician, shamelessly tagging Slash from Guns N’ Roses.
My art career went nowhere — not even as a hobby. But I’ve come full circle. I was a tree once. And now, again, I am a tree — collecting dust, being stationary, and providing shade to ants.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)