By Robert Clements
The Silent Piano..!
At home my piano is a silent one. It stands there in the sitting room, polished, upright, respectable. Visitors notice it immediately. They nod approvingly and say things like old world charm, classic taste, elegance. Some even run their fingers lightly along its glossy surface, as though touching history itself. The piano accepts the compliments quietly, knowing full well that admiration without use is a rather hollow affair.
With my daughters gone and my wife busy with life’s many urgencies, the piano waits. It lends character to the room the way antiques do, by simply existing. It gives the space a certain dignity, as though the room itself has read good books and listens to classical music in the evenings. It has become part of the furniture, part of the scenery, part of the background of my life.
And yet its keys remain untouched. White and black in perfect order. Lined up like obedient soldiers who have never been asked to march. Silent. Patient.
There is something unsettling about unused potential. It makes no noise. It causes no trouble. It simply sits there, quietly accusing.
As I stood looking at it today, the piano spoke. Not aloud, of course. Pianos are far too dignified for that. But its message was clear.
Aren’t I like so many beautiful women, it seemed to say.
Displayed proudly. Shown off to visitors. Admired for appearance. But rarely listened to. Rarely asked to speak. Rarely allowed to reveal what lies beneath the polished surface.
I felt suitably chastened. The piano was right.
We live in a world where beauty is applauded loudly while ability is acknowledged softly, if at all. Where women are praised for how they look before they are respected for how they think. Where brains are an afterthought, a footnote, something to be discovered only if one accidentally stumbles upon it.
From childhood onwards, the conditioning begins. Pretty girl. Cute girl. Lovely smile. Nice hair. Beautiful eyes. Somewhere, buried under these well meaning compliments, intelligence waits quietly for its turn. If it ever comes.
I have often wondered what would happen if, for a single day, the world reversed its priorities. If little girls were first told, You are sharp. You are curious. You are capable. You can solve problems. You can build things. You can change things. And only later, almost as an afterthought, You also happen to be beautiful.
What a dangerous world that would become.
Dangerous to outdated mindsets. Dangerous to fragile male egos. Dangerous to systems that thrive on keeping half the population ornamental.
So we settle instead for pianos in living rooms. Gleaming. Impressive. Silent.
I opened the piano. The lid rose like an eyelid finally waking from sleep. There was a faint creak, the kind old furniture makes when it stretches after a long rest. I placed my fingers on the keys and played a few notes.
I am no pianist. Let us establish that firmly. My relationship with music is cordial but distant. But even untrained fingers can coax beauty out of a well made instrument.
The notes filled the room, hesitant at first, then a little more confident, like a voice that realises it is finally being heard.
The sound surprised me.
It was warm.
It was generous.
It was forgiving.
The piano did not judge my lack of skill. It did not sigh or roll its imaginary eyes. It simply offered what it had been created to give.
Music.
And in that moment, I realised how many women around us are just like that piano. Waiting. Capable. Rich with tone and depth. All they need is an invitation to play.
Not permission.
Not charity.
Not special favours.
Just an honest invitation.
Tell us what you think.
Show us what you know.
Let us hear your voice.
Instead, we often hand them dusters and beauty creams, while quietly reserving microphones, boardrooms and decision making tables for ourselves.
We still marvel when a woman drives well, as though steering requires ovaries. We still express pleasant shock when a woman understands finance, as though numbers are genetically allergic to femininity. We still say things like, She is intelligent, for a woman.
Imagine telling a man, He is brave, for a man.
The piano notes lingered in the air long after I stopped playing. They hovered like shy guests unsure whether they were welcome to stay.
Somewhere across the country, more than seven hundred million women smiled as those imaginary notes travelled through the air. Not because a piano was being played, but because a small acknowledgement had been made.
That beauty without voice is incomplete.
That admiration without respect is shallow.
That decoration is not destiny.
I imagined pianos all over India suddenly being opened.
In drawing rooms.
In classrooms.
In laboratories.
In police stations.
In courtrooms.
In corporate offices.
In kitchens where brilliance has been quietly simmering for generations.
Imagine the symphony.
It would not be perfect. It would not be neat. It would not always be polite.
But it would be real.
The piano in my sitting room seemed pleased. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just quietly satisfied.
For the first time in a long while, it was no longer just a showpiece.
And neither, I hope, will the women around us remain showpieces for much longer.
Now if you will excuse me, I have an important appointment.
With my piano.
And with a world that desperately needs to start listening…!
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