Harmony

                          

The maestro was playing his flute in the front yard of his house. His attendant walked in with a cup of tea but stopped a few paces away. Mesmerised by the sweet melody, he paused to soak in the bliss before offering tea to the maestro. A few minutes later, when the maestro stopped, his attendant offered tea.
“Thank you,” said the maestro. “How was it?”
“What, sir?” The surprised attendant asked.
“You assume I did not notice you standing there,” the maestro smiled.
“I’m sorry, sir. This is one of your most melodious pieces. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Thank you, you don’t need to be sorry.”
The attendant took his leave. The maestro put down his flute and picked up the cup of tea.

While he relished the aromatic Darjeeling tea, his eyes were glued to the flute.
“You are such a melodious instrument, producing such sweet notes! A listener cannot help but be drawn towards you.”
“Thank you,” replied the flute. The maestro was taken aback. “But you see, maestro, it’s not me but you who produces the music.”
“Do explain,” he replied.
“I am merely a hollow piece of wood with a few holes here and there, how can I produce music? In the hands of a child, I am but a toy. In the hands of a maestro, I’m a musical instrument. So, you see, it all depends upon you.”
“That is correct,” replied the maestro. “But tell me, dear flute, what would I be without you?”
There was silence while he sipped on his tea.

“It seems, maestro, that you need me as much as I need you,” said the flute.
“Yes, it is you and I in harmony who make such sweet music.”
“Right,” said the flute. “In fact, in every walk of life, harmony is the key to a melodious existence!”
“Indeed,” replied the maestro.
“Let me share something with you, maestro. When you blow into me, when your fingers dance over me, I respond and produce a melody. But it wasn’t always like this.”
“What do you mean, dear flute?”
“I was once a rough wooden stick, worthless to most. Then one day another maestro, like yourself, chanced upon me. He was a master too, but of a different skill. He was a master at transforming a stick to an instrument!”

“Diligently he worked on me. Carefully carving me hollow and piercing holes at just the right places. By the time he was done, I was ready!”
“So, you owe your existence to him?”
“Oh yes, I learnt, not everyone who is hard on you is your enemy.”
“Yes, but for the master, you might have landed up in a winter evening fire.”
“Maybe,” replied the flute. “Though, even that wouldn’t have been a waste. I would have served a different purpose to that I’m serving now, albeit a very short one. But that’s the most important aspect of life, to have a purpose, isn’t it?”
“It surely is. I believe we are all created twice. First by the creator himself and then when we find our purpose. I’m grateful we have found our purpose. To produce music and make the world a better place.”

The maestro finished his tea and kept the cup down on the table. He picked up the flute once again.
“You know, my dear flute, we are not very different, you and I.”
“How is that?” Asked the flute.
“The reason you are able to produce music is because you are hollow, you are empty. You are free and ready to receive. One can only fill an empty cup, isn’t it?”
“Yes, maestro.”
“All melodies, I believe, already exist in the universe. I believe that I don’t create a melody; I just play it. When the universe finds me worthy, when I’m empty enough to receive, it will use me as a medium to bring the melody into this world for everyone to enjoy. Years of hard work, dedication and training have made it possible.”
“And gratitude as well, maestro.”
“Yes, gratitude is the key. It keeps an artist ready to receive.”

“So, you had a maestro working on you as well?” Asked the flute.
“Yes. While the maestro who worked on you is a craftsman, the one who worked on me is a Guru. Every master does the same work, basically. Make us hollow, without ego, ready to receive, ready to produce music.”
“Ego? What is that?” Asked the flute.
“Ego, for an artist, is what the wooded mass at the centre was for you,” explained the maestro. “It prevents the artist from receiving and transmitting the melody.”
“So you had to be hollowed out too?”
The maestro smiled, “You can say that.”
“Well that’s good. Now that both of us are in harmony and ready to make music, what are we waiting for? Let’s make some music!” Said the flute.