Deserted Strip of Heart

By Shafqat MH

Date: 27.05.2025

The harmonium sits silently in a storeroom, a relic in a distant district. I had it with me from the 2000s until 2018. Now it is a ghost of melodies past. Despite the ever-changing pop culture, it remains, still present amidst the monopoly of electric instruments in the Indian music scene. It's an instrument to cut your teeth on, an instrument to first master, to tune your musical sensibility. It is still "the tool." There was a time, it feels not so long ago in my head, when its bellows breathed life into aspirations, when its keys unlocked a world of musical potential. The dream of stepping onto a stage, of captivating an audience with a powerful voice – it all seemed within reach. Hours were spent hunched over its polished wood, fingers gliding across the keys, vocal cords pushed to their limits in pursuit of mastery. Each note played, each scale sung, was a brick laid in the foundation of an entertainment career. Now, it’s no longer a vibrant instrument, but a static symbol, a piece of ornate furniture collecting dust and unspoken dreams.

But then, as life began to intervene, the music worshipper in me stopped believing in the dream. It was wrapped in a blanket and tightly packed for numerous transfers. In its many changing locations, it was an instrument revered. It was gently placed atop all the tightly packed items and furniture. Sometimes, it rested between the seats or on my lap. The push of academic pursuit, injected into my life by my parents, came to the forefront: "Career first, then the rest." My heart, then, had to seek a new rhythm. The dreams of my creators had to beat. The harmonium fell silent, and with it, the dreams that had soared so high began their descent. Subsequently, my efforts in the next few years seemed sparse and only intentional, but that intention never sustained more than a week. Now, despite every earnest attempt, every desperate tug at the threads of what once was, the momentum refuses to return. The sacrifice, never yielded a greater payoff. My creators were then blamed for the mishap. My heart broke and shattered into a million pieces, which I am still picking up with tweezers. Then it felt like standing on an airport runway, perfectly primed for takeoff, but with no planes in sight, no passengers boarding, no air traffic control giving clearance. The strip is there, meticulously prepared for a restart, but the journey to reignite those forgotten aspirations remains grounded. It is a desolate airstrip in the present time.

The yearning to pick up where I left off, to reclaim vocal prowess and stage presence, is a constant voice in the background. Yet, the energy that once propelled those ambitions forward has dissipated, leaving behind a frustrating void. It’s a strange paradox: the desire is intense, the path is clear, but the impetus, the spark that ignites action, is stubbornly absent. This led to trials: learning another craft like DJing and graphic designing. As it continued, I turned to writing to find a sort of beating heart – a replacement for the beating heart. It is now coming into its zone.

The harmonium, once a catalyst for so much vibrant activity, now stands as a quiet testament to unfulfilled potential, a beautiful monument to a road not taken. It’s a stark reminder that sometimes, even when the stage is set and the audience is waiting, the show just can't go on. The dreams, once so vivid and alive, now seem to linger in the periphery, beautiful but unattainable, like distant stars that shine but offer no warmth. They serve as a painful reminder to look the other way when new artists display their range and craft and are appreciated for their skills. It is a desolate airstrip in the present time, stored in my storeroom,

as a relic.

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