1
The guitar no longer needs to be hidden under the bed. It has found its place on the wall between the two windows. At first, I used to keep it under the bed, afraid my father might see it. But now that I have his permission, there’s no need to hide it anymore.
I usually sit on the chair by the window to play the guitar, but today I’ve climbed onto the bed. I’ve managed to get my hands on a handheld recorder. I brought it from a repair shop at the stadium. I had gone there to fix the cassette player at home, and that’s when I spotted the recorder. I’ve been looking for a small recorder like this for a long time. Now, when I play the guitar and sing, I can easily record myself. The recorder is old, and one of its buttons is even broken!
The shopkeeper said, “You’ll have to take it as it is. Don’t you understand? I’m practically giving it away for free. My little shop is cluttered with all this junk. If I clear some of it out, I’ll be able to work in peace.”
I asked, “Does that mean it’s broken?”
The shopkeeper replied, “It was working fine last time I checked. There’s even an expensive cassette inside. Take it if you want. The price I’m asking is less than what you’d get if you sold it for scrap.”
The shopkeeper wasn’t lying. The price he was offering was practically a steal. But even that two hundred taka wasn’t in my pocket!
I said, “Alright, I’ll take it. I’ll come back tomorrow with the money.”
“If someone else takes it, I can’t help it.”
“Who else would want this broken thing?”
I boarded the bus again, heading towards Kolabagan. My mind was fixated on the recorder. I had to have it.
I got off at Elephant Road and went to Tushar’s house. But instead of looking for Tushar, I went straight up to the third floor.
On the second floor, Tushar’s mother saw me and said, “I’ve made shutki bhorta today. Stay for lunch.”
“Of course, Khalamma! I’ll just go see Tuhin Bhai first.”
I’ve known Tuhin Bhai even before I knew Tushar. In fact, for a long time, I didn’t even know they were brothers! Tuhin Bhai loves to chat, and whenever he came to the alley for tea and cigarettes, we’d talk for hours. I often visited his room on the third floor.
I knocked on Tuhin Bhai’s door and entered to find him listening to music at full volume, happily puffing on a cigarette. As soon as he saw me, he said, “Milon, I think I like this live version of ‘Mistreated’ the most. Whose song is this originally?”
I said, “It’s originally by Deep Purple, with David Coverdale on vocals. Ritchie Blackmore left the band and formed Rainbow with Ronnie James Dio. This live version is from that time. It’s fantastic!”
“Can you make me a cassette with two songs back-to-back? This is Tushar’s cassette; he’ll take it back soon. And on this cassette, the two songs aren’t together. I can’t be bothered to keep changing cassettes...”
“Sure, I’ll do it... What else do you want? Give me a list...”
“No, no, nothing else. Just these two songs on the entire cassette. I can’t keep rewinding and forwarding. You can add Santana’s ‘Europa’ as filler if you want.”
Tuhin Bhai’s requests are always so strange! We usually try to fit as many songs as possible on a cassette, and here he wants just two songs on one. But I didn’t argue and said, “Alright, I’ll do it...” Then I added, “Tuhin Bhai, I needed to talk to you about something.”
“What?”
“I saw a cassette recorder at the stadium...”
“And now you absolutely need it, right? But you don’t have the money. I know how you and your friend keep coming up with these demands. I can’t give you anything.”
I didn’t say anything. After a moment, Tuhin Bhai asked, “How much is it?”
“Two hundred taka...”
Tuhin Bhai was shocked. “What? Two hundred taka? Are you buying it or just decorating your room?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll figure it out after I buy it... I’ll pay you back later.”
“What are you even saying? I don’t understand! Just pull that drawer open. Look, it should be there.”
With that, he took a long drag from his cigarette and went back to listening to music. I took the money and left, saying, “Thank you, Tuhin Bhai. I’ll pay you back later...”
“Eh!” Tuhin Bhai made a dismissive sound and said, “You’ll come back to return the money? Keep it. Just make sure you record that cassette for me. You were supposed to make one for me earlier, but you never did.”
“Sorry, Tuhin Bhai. I’ll definitely do it this time.” With that, I headed back to the stadium. I couldn’t wait!
The shopkeeper was surprised to see me. “Didn’t you say you’d come back tomorrow?”
I handed him the money without a word and said, “Give me the recorder. I’ll take it now. Save yourself some trouble.”
Finally, I took the recorder. I still couldn’t believe it. I’d figure out what to do with the broken button later. And if it really was completely broken, I could always keep it as a decoration at home. I’ve always had a soft spot for vintage electronic items.
I locked the door and took out the recorder. It came in a leather bag with a shoulder strap.
I slung the recorder over my shoulder and stood in front of the mirror for a while. It looked pretty good, almost like a journalist’s recorder. These recorders were originally made for interviews.
As I was putting in the batteries, I remembered the cassette. The shopkeeper had said there was an expensive cassette inside. When I saw the cassette, I was genuinely surprised. I have all kinds of cassettes in my collection—normal, chrome, ferro-chrome, metal—almost every type.
This cassette looked somewhat similar to a full-metal-body metal-type cassette, but it was completely different. There wasn’t even a brand name on it! I’d never seen anything like it before.
I put the cassette back into the recorder and pressed play...
A work song was playing, like the early blues songs. But how was such a sound coming from this tiny recorder? It felt like I was listening to a live performance.
I don’t know if I was losing my mind, but in front of my eyes, a group of black people were working in a field, singing the song.
“The captain don’t like me
Won’t allow me no show.
Well, work don’t hurt me,
Don’t care where in the world I go.
Work don’t hurt me,
Like the early rise,
Well, work don’t hurt me,
But that’s the thing that hurts my pride.”
2
In a tobacco field in South America, enslaved black people are working in the fields, singing in unison. English rule had been ongoing for over a hundred and fifty years. Enslaved people were captured from Africa and brought over on ships by the English. They were sold at auctions to be used as servants. As captives, they were forced to obey their masters’ every command. They were subjected to inhumane treatment, often for no reason.
John Murray, the 4th Earl of Dunmore, was the colonial governor of Virginia at the time. With a cigar in his mouth, he often enjoyed listening to the songs drifting from the fields. John, of Irish descent, was a passionate music lover. Over the past hundred and fifty years, the African slaves had fully learned the English language and were now singing in English. So John had no trouble understanding the songs—they were work songs. But the field songs sung by the black people were completely different from other work songs or folk songs.
Work songs are usually sung in unison to speed up the pace of work. The black people’s songs had that element too, but they also included the pain of their enslaved lives. The melodies, rhythms, and beats were all unique. They were nothing like the traditional English or Irish folk songs, and certainly not like classical or opera. The tunes were likely borrowed from their ancestral homeland, Africa.
Evening was approaching, and John usually didn’t stay at the plantation house at night, returning to the English colony instead. Although a fully furnished bungalow was always ready for him, he had never stayed overnight. But today, for some reason, he decided to stay.
It was just as well; he had to be at the port early tomorrow morning anyway. Three ships carrying enslaved Africans would dock at Jamestown. Most of them would work in the cotton, tobacco, or tea fields. A few would be auctioned off this time. Later, these ships would return to England, laden with tobacco.
The city was named after the river. Over a hundred and fifty years ago, a British explorer, John Smith, discovered the river. He named it the James River, and the surrounding area became Jamestown.
John Murray’s bungalow was right by the James River. With a peg of whiskey in hand, John sat on the veranda, enjoying nature, as if transported back a hundred and fifty years.
Before the English settlement, this region was inhabited by Native Americans. The powerful English forces easily drove out the peaceful Native Americans and took control of Virginia. Under John Smith’s planning, the English colony in Virginia quickly grew.
The Native Americans split into several tribal groups and scattered in all directions. Though they lacked modern weapons, they were incredibly brave. These indigenous groups would launch surprise attacks with bows, arrows, and spears. Even the English forces feared them. Whenever the English traveled from one place to another, they always went with a well-armed convoy.
One day, John Smith was leading such a convoy, searching for a new place to establish a colony. Along the way, the inevitable happened. The Powhatan tribe attacked them. The hunters’ bows and arrows overpowered the English weapons that day. One by one, John Smith’s men fell.
Now it was John Smith’s turn. He saw certain death before his eyes. The tribal chief raised his spear to strike, but just then, a young girl ran over and threw herself in front of John Smith, stopping him.
The chief’s daughter—Pocahontas—would not let him be killed. The chief, who adored his daughter, spared John Smith’s life.
Following this, John Smith later made a peace treaty with the Native Americans, and they were given specific boundaries. However, the simple Native Americans still didn’t fully understand that they were the true inhabitants of not just Virginia, but all of America. In that sense, America didn’t need to be “discovered” anew, as the indigenous people had been living there long before... but that’s another story!
At one point, John Smith requested the Powhatan chief to allow the eleven-year-old Pocahontas to come and live in the English colony to receive a proper education. Though the chief was reluctant, Pocahontas agreed. The English colony welcomed her with respect.
Pocahontas was highly intelligent and quickly learned the English language. Relations between the two sides improved further. During John Smith’s time in Virginia, there were no major conflicts with the Native Americans for many years. In fact, slavery hadn’t even begun then. It would be another decade before Africans were brought over as slaves.
When Pocahontas was seventeen, John Rolfe was appointed as the colonial governor of Virginia. They met in the English colony and fell in love at first sight.
When the chief found out, he objected for the first time to his daughter’s wishes. But eventually, he realized how deeply his daughter loved John Rolfe and reluctantly agreed.
But John Smith couldn’t accept it. He voluntarily left the country, bidding farewell to Virginia forever. It’s believed that John Smith had fallen in love with Pocahontas, who had saved his life, but due to their age difference, he never expressed it.
Pocahontas married John Rolfe. As the governor’s wife, she became the first Native American to receive such honor.
Meanwhile, efforts to grow various crops in Virginia had been ongoing for many years, but nothing was yielding well. John Rolfe was deeply concerned about this. Pocahontas advised her husband to try growing tobacco. But even after attempting it, when everyone was about to give up, Pocahontas taught them the secret farming techniques of the Native American tribes. The yield was good. And from then on, commercial tobacco farming began in Virginia.
But a new problem arose! It was very difficult to find enough laborers to work the fields. And so began the practice of bringing black people from Africa. Thus began the dark chapter of slavery.
John Rolfe and Pocahontas managed Virginia with great authority for many years. Due to her husband’s job, Pocahontas traveled to England. There, too, she was warmly received. No one had imagined that the life of a “wild princess” would change so dramatically.
At one point, Pocahontas wanted to return to Virginia. Her husband, John Rolfe, agreed. But the day before their departure, Pocahontas fell ill with a deadly fever. At just twenty-one years old, Pocahontas passed away. She never returned to Virginia.
Sitting on the veranda of his bungalow by the James River, John Murray was thinking about John Rolfe, John Smith, and Pocahontas from a hundred and fifty years ago.
It was late at night, and he was contemplating whether to have another peg of whiskey before bed. Just then, he heard singing from nearby. This wasn’t a work song; it was completely different in tone. The melody was deeply sorrowful, and John’s eyes welled up with tears!
“I can’t sleep at night
I can’t eat a bite
’Cause the woman I love
She don’t treat me right
She makes me feel so blue
I don’t know what to do
Sometimes I sit and sigh
And then begin to cry
’Cause my best friend
Said her last goodbye
There’s a change in the ocean
Change in the deep blue sea, my baby
I’ll tell you folks, there ain’t no change in me
My love for that woman will always be.”
John couldn’t recall if he had ever heard such a sorrowful song before. He called a sentry and asked, “Who’s singing at this hour?”
The sentry replied, “Oh, sir, these Negro slaves sing all the time, day and night. I don’t understand where they get the energy to sing after working so hard all day.”
John, suppressing his irritation, asked, “Where is the singing coming from?”
“From the cells behind the bungalow. After the field work is done, they’re locked up again. Just give the order, sir, and I’ll whip the one who’s singing so hard that he’ll never dare to sing again, not even during the day.”
John, with a hint of annoyance, said, “Ah, did I ask you to say all that?”
“No, sir. Sorry.”
“Go, bring the one who’s singing to me... right now!”
The sentry rushed out of the bungalow and headed straight for the cells. He thought to himself, it’s been a while since anyone was whipped. With the master’s order, today will be a good day for some whipping. He seemed quite angry.
A skinny black man was brought before John. His hands and feet were shackled, and he could barely stand under the weight. He was trembling with fear.
The sentry said with a smile, “My lord, how many lashes should I give?”
John, furious, barked at the sentry, “You remove his shackles and get out of my sight right now!”
The sentry, flustered, began to remove the shackles. He tried to lighten the mood by saying, “I actually quite like their songs...” But as soon as he met John’s furious gaze, he froze. He realized John was actually angry with him! Without another word, he removed the shackles and quickly scurried away.
John asked the enslaved man, “What’s your name?”
The enslaved man replied timidly, “Kuntakinte.”
“What? Kuntak...” John tried to pronounce the name but couldn’t quite get it right. He then asked, “What song were you singing earlier?”
“It’s a song of our sorrow, my lord. Forgive me if I’ve done wrong.”
“Hmm...” John got up from his chair and approached the enslaved man, who was still trembling. John took off his long coat and handed it to the man, saying, “Put this on.”
The enslaved man hesitated, too afraid to reach out. John helped him put it on. Then, in a declarative tone, he announced, “From today, your name is Frank Johnson.”
3
Every morning, I sit by the window with my guitar. But today, I couldn’t focus on playing. My eyes kept drifting to the recorder lying on the bed. After last night’s events, I haven’t dared to go near it!
I’m thinking... was I actually asleep? But those events didn’t feel like a dream at all; it was as if they happened right before my eyes! I can’t quite figure out how it’s possible.
A little later, Moni arrived as usual. I quickly stashed the recorder in the desk drawer.
Moni picked up the guitar, and I took out the photocopied guitar bible and placed it on the bed. Moni said, “Give me some paper and a pen.”
As I handed them over, I said, “You know, last night I had this strange feeling, like I was transported to another world...”
“What? Are you feeling sick or something?” she said, flipping through the photocopied pages.
“No...”
Moni didn’t pay much attention and said, “Name any chord, and I’ll figure out its pentatonic notes.”
I didn’t argue and said, “Blues? Good choice. I’ve written a new song. Want to hear it?”
Moni absentmindedly said, “Sure.”
I started singing, “I made a deal with the devil, I won’t get hurt anymore...”
Moni put down the pen and paper and exclaimed, “I like the first line already! Wait, let me learn a blues scale first. I’ll make the guitar cry so hard that everyone will weep when they hear your song.”
“Let’s go to Noman’s place one day and record it.”
By then, Moni had already lost interest in my story. She drew six strings on the paper and then started drawing frets horizontally, one after another. Then she looked at me and said, “Which chord?”
I thought for a moment and said, “The A minor scale has A, B, C, D, E, F, and G notes.”
“So, what are the 1st, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 7th notes?”
“A, C, D, E, G?”
“Yes, exactly. That’s the A minor blues scale.”
Moni started marking the notes on the fretboard she’d drawn. Now she was trying to play them on the guitar, following the diagram.
Through the window, Sumel called out, along with Bexi and Tushar. I gestured for them to come up. They entered the room, and I told them about last night. Sumel laughed and said, “Did you eat something weird last night? Let me see your eyes... yeah, they look a bit red.”
Moni chuckled, “Look at him, talking nonsense! You’re losing your mind. Why don’t you just give me the guitar?”
I said, “Oh, come on! I went through so much trouble to buy it from Niloy Da.”
Tushar, in a more serious tone, said, “Let me see the thing.”
I asked, confused, “What thing?”
“The recorder,” he said, seeming to believe me a little.
“Oh, right. Hold on, let me get it.”
I took the recorder out of the drawer and placed it in the middle of the bed. Now everyone gathered around it with curiosity. I hesitantly pressed the play button. But nothing happened—no music, just a loud hissing sound. I quickly stopped it and took out the cassette. The tape was tangled, and it would’ve snapped if I’d waited any longer.
Tushar said, “Ugh, where did you get this broken thing?”
I sat there helplessly, holding the tangled cassette. Sumel handed me a pencil. I carefully wound the tape back into the cassette using the pencil.
“Leave it for now. The recorder’s head and pulley need cleaning; they’re probably dirty.” With that, I put it back in the drawer.
After everyone left, I went downstairs to my father’s lab, looking for alcohol. My father has a medicine factory at home. In one room, labels were being attached to bottles. The bottles were then packed into boxes and neatly arranged. In another room, medicines were being mixed, and next to it, large glass jars were being filled. But I needed to go to the lab room. To get there, I had to pass through my father’s office.
My father was sitting at his desk with several medical sales representatives from different parts of the country. They were deep in conversation. I entered the office and picked up the newspaper lying on his desk. My father just glanced at me. I pretended to be engrossed in the news, holding the paper up as I walked toward the lab.
The lab was lined with tables along the walls, filled with test tubes, beakers, and all sorts of strange-looking instruments. That’s where I found the alcohol.
I had already brought a small bottle from home. Behind the factory, there was an open area where empty bottles were stored. Thousands of bottles of all sizes! Next to it was a room for washing bottles, where they were cleaned as needed and then dried in another room at a specific temperature.
I carefully poured some alcohol into the small bottle using a glass funnel and left the lab. On my way out, I held the newspaper up again, passing through my father’s office unnoticed and returning to my room.
I locked the door and soaked a cotton swab in alcohol to clean the recorder’s head and pulley. Then I carefully rewound and fast-forwarded the cassette a few times to straighten out the creases in the tape.
Before pressing play, I glanced around the room. Then I pressed the button... The recorder started vibrating rapidly! Everything around me began to change. I was no longer in my room—I was somewhere else! Someone was singing...
“I got a letter this morning
What do you reckon it read?
It said the girl you love is dead
Said “Hurry, Hurry because the girl you love is dead”
Well I packed up my suitcase
I took off down the road
When I got there she was laying on the cooling board
It looked like ten thousand people standing around the burial ground
I didn’t know I loved her 'till they began to let her down
You know it’s so hard to love
Someone that don’t love you
Won’t get satisfaction
Don’t care what you do.”
4
Son House was performing blues music at a juke joint. In the early 1900s, these kinds of music bars were very popular in African-American-dominated states. After a day’s work, black folks would gather at these juke joints to enjoy music and dance with drinks in hand.
Although slavery had officially ended with Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, most white people still didn’t accept black people as equals. Socializing with them was practically unheard of. Even music was segregated!
Traveling musicians would perform at these juke joints to earn a living. Through these performances, they slowly built their careers. They’d play at these joints all year round. Although black music was practically banned across America, except in African-American states, black musicians hadn’t yet found their place elsewhere. Son House was a well-known name among black musicians, though at the time, his fame was limited to African-American communities.
Son House finished his set and was about to leave the stage. Just then, a skinny boy ran up and almost bumped into him as he climbed onto the stage. His eyes were fixed on the guitar lying there. Just as he was about to grab it, the juke joint owner rushed over and snatched it away. Son House, surprised, said, “What’s going on, Willie? Why’d you stop him? He just wants to play. Let him.”
Willie exclaimed, “Robert play the guitar? That’ll be the day! You don’t know, Son, he can’t play at all. If he plays, everyone will get annoyed and leave my joint. It’s bad for business.”
Son House said, “Come on, give him the guitar. Let’s hear him play. How bad can it be?”
Under Son House’s insistence, Willie reluctantly handed the guitar to Robert. Robert started playing clumsily. Son House had to cover his ears and said, “Robert, you’re never going to make it as a guitarist. You should give up on this.”
Robert looked heartbroken. Son House tried to console him, “It’s for the best, Robert. You don’t have to worry about this guitar anymore. You can focus on something else, and I’m sure you’ll do well at it.”
Robert didn’t say a word. Before Son House could say anything else, Robert threw the guitar down and ran out of the juke joint.
Willie shouted after him, “You broke my guitar! If I ever see you here again...”
Son House was left stunned.
5
Son House stayed at a hotel nearby. He planned to stay for many days, as he had friends and relatives in the area. But that night, he couldn’t sleep. The image of that skinny boy kept haunting him. His determined eyes and hopeless face—Son couldn’t forget them. Now he felt like he’d been too harsh on the boy.
The next day, Son went to the juke joint and asked about Robert. But no one knew where he was. Willie said, “Good riddance. Why are you looking for him again?”
“No, I was too harsh on him last night. I should’ve given him a proper chance...”
“No way. My business can’t afford that.”
Son didn’t argue further and went up on stage. Every night, as he performed at the juke joint, he couldn’t help but think of Robert. Son House began to feel a deep sense of regret.
A few months later, one night, as Son House was performing, a young man burst into the juke joint. He had a guitar slung over his shoulder in a case. He walked straight toward the stage. Willie tried to stop him, but the intensity in his eyes made Willie step aside.
The young man took out his guitar and started playing along with Son’s music. The sound of the guitar made Son turn around. He was shocked—it was Robert! The skinny Robert was now a confident Robert Johnson. He simply said, “Am I ready to play the guitar now, Son?” and began to play...
“I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above “have mercy, now save poor Bob, if you please”
Standing at the crossroad, tried to flag a ride
Didn’t nobody seem to know me, everybody pass me by
Standing at the crossroad, rising sun going down
I believe to my soul, now, poor Bob is sinking down
You can run, you can run, tell my friend Willie Brown
That I got the crossroad blues this morning, Lord, I’m sinking down
And I went to the crossroad, mama, I looked east and west
Lord, I didn’t have no sweet woman, well babe, in my distress.”
One song after another, Robert played. The entire juke joint was mesmerized. Son House was utterly stunned. This wasn’t the Robert Johnson he knew—it was someone else entirely. Son House’s jaw practically hit the floor.
No one could speak. Robert Johnson’s guitar melodies and singing seemed to stop time. At the end of his performance, Son House shouted, “Robert! You must have sold your soul to the devil. There’s no other way you could’ve mastered the blues so quickly! I’ve been playing for years, and I’ve never reached your level. Tell me, you met the devil... didn’t you?”
Robert Johnson didn’t answer. He just picked up his guitar, smiled, and walked out of the juke joint. That very night, Son House left the town. Robert began performing regularly at the juke joint, and Willie’s business boomed.
Meanwhile, the story of Robert Johnson’s return spread far and wide. That night, after Son House’s harsh words, Robert had run out of the juke joint in tears. It started raining, but Robert didn’t care. He ran until he reached a lonely crossroads outside town. Robert stood there for a while, staring into the distance.
Later, Robert managed to get his hands on a guitar. He forgot about eating and sleeping, spending night after night playing at that crossroads. Days turned into weeks, and Robert kept playing.
One stormy night, as Robert was playing, he couldn’t get the tune right. Just then, he heard a deep, raspy voice say, “I can grant your wish.”
Robert, terrified, asked, “Who’s there?”
At that moment, a figure materialized out of thin air. It was the devil himself, dressed in a black coat, accompanied by a fierce-looking hound. The hound let out a mournful howl, almost like it was singing.
Robert, forgetting his fear, was mesmerized. Such an ugly creature, yet its voice was so beautiful! But then fear crept back in, and he asked, “What do you want from me?”
“Your soul. Give me your soul, and I’ll grant your deepest desire,” the devil said, grinning. “You’ll sing like my hound, and your guitar will draw people from far and wide.”
Robert agreed without hesitation. The devil said, “Go, I’ve granted your wish. But remember, I can come for your soul anytime.” With that, the devil vanished into thin air.
Robert Johnson began traveling beyond Mississippi’s juke joints, performing in various states. Wherever he went, crowds flocked to see him. Stories about Robert Johnson began to spread.
One such story reached Ernie Oertle, who came to Mississippi to see Robert Johnson for himself. The first time he heard Robert play, Ernie couldn’t believe his ears. The music was otherworldly. Ernie didn’t waste any time and recorded Robert Johnson’s “Cross Road Blues,” “Hellhound on My Trail,” and about ten other songs at the Gunter Hotel in Texas. In return, Robert was paid a few hundred dollars.
Ernie worked for an American record company and played Robert’s songs for the executives. They all realized Robert was no ordinary musician. Robert Johnson’s records were released. Before this, blues music hadn’t been very popular. But Robert Johnson’s blues captivated everyone.
Later, at a studio in Dallas, Robert recorded “Me and the Devil Blues” and about twenty other songs. He was about to embark on an all-American tour.
But the devil didn’t let that happen. Before the tour could begin, he appeared.
Robert was performing at a juke joint when a tall, menacing figure in a long black coat appeared, grinning wickedly. As Robert finished his set and was about to leave, the figure laughed and said, “Won’t you play one more song for me, Robert Johnson? Who knows, this could be your last!”
Robert, uneasy, started another song. But when he finished, the figure was gone. Robert sat at his usual table, drinking. As he got drunk, he heard that wicked laugh again.
“I’ve been looking for you, Robert,” the figure said, holding two glasses of drink. “You played for me, so I brought you this.”
He handed Robert a glass. Robert said, “I’ve had enough already...”
“Oh? You made a promise...”
With that, he forced the glass to Robert’s lips. Robert had no choice but to drink. Before he could react, the figure let out a booming laugh and disappeared. Robert passed out. At just 27 years old, Robert Johnson was dead.
6
“Open the door, Milon... Milon!”
My mother was knocking on the door. I snapped out of my daze and rushed to open it. She scolded me, “I’ve been knocking for ages. What were you doing?”
“What do you need?”
“What do I need? What kind of question is that? Were you sleeping at this hour?”
With that, she started tidying up the room. As she approached the bed, I quickly grabbed the recorder. She noticed and asked, “What’s that? A recorder?”
“Yes,” I said, stuffing it into my backpack.
“Go take a shower.”
“I’m going out for a bit.”
“Now? Stay for lunch.”
“I’ll eat when I get back, Amma.”
“When you go out, who knows when you’ll be back? You’ve started coming home late these days...”
I pretended not to hear her and left. As I walked down the street, I thought of Gorky Bhai first. I headed towards Farmgate, took a bus to Chairmanbari, and then walked to the end of Banani Road 7, where Gorky Bhai lived.
The house was strange—an office on the ground floor, a staircase leading up from inside, a dining area and kitchen to the right, and a few steps up to a room with a music system and sofas along the walls. We’d spend hours chatting there. A few more steps up led to Gorky Bhai’s room. I’d never been to the rooms above.
It was risky to visit Gorky Bhai at this hour. He was a night owl and wouldn’t wake up before noon. The caretaker opened the gate and reminded me, “Gorky Bhai is still asleep. Can’t you come back later?”
“Just tell him I’m here.”
“You can go up and wait. He’ll come down when he wakes up.”
Without another word, I climbed the stairs and entered the room. My eyes fell on two new LPs by the record player—one by Mozart and one by Beethoven. They looked brand new, probably brought from abroad. One was already on the turntable, the other still sealed. I turned on the record player, and Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony began to play. Instead of sitting on the sofa, I lay down on the carpet.
The caretaker brought me a cup of tea. As I sipped it, I thought: Gorky Bhai won’t be up for a while. Should I try the recorder?
After finishing the tea, I turned off the record player. I took out the recorder from my backpack and pressed play...
6
Ludwig was playing the piano at a concert, but he seemed restless. Soon, he would have to leave for Vienna to meet Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Ludwig had just entered his teenage years, though he had already been playing the piano regularly with a group in Bonn. He had taken a six-month break from the group to travel to Vienna, hoping to study under Mozart.
Mozart was, at the time, the world’s greatest musician. By his early thirties, he had already achieved worldwide fame. He conducted the Vienna Symphony Orchestra and excelled in opera, concertos, symphonies, and sonatas. Kings, counts, electors, archbishops, dukes, and princes from various countries sought his company.
Upon arriving in Vienna, Ludwig didn’t waste any time. He went straight to Mozart’s “Camshina” house without any prior notice.
Mozart was hosting a dinner for his invited guests that evening. The house was filled with people. Mozart’s wife, Constanze, came to inform him of Ludwig’s arrival.
At first, Mozart was puzzled. Who was this Ludwig? Then he remembered an elector archbishop mentioning a talented young pianist and suggesting he take him as a student. Mozart had dismissed the idea. He’d heard such stories before and had tested a few, but none had impressed him. He wasn’t keen on taking on new students.
Later, a count who was a connoisseur of classical music also spoke highly of Ludwig. Under their pressure, Mozart had agreed to meet him. But no date had been set. No one just showed up unannounced to meet someone like Mozart, especially without an appointment.
Constanze said, “What can we do? He’s come all this way. Let’s open the music room.”
Mozart, annoyed by the unexpected interruption, reluctantly agreed. He disliked such disruptions.
Ludwig was standing in the music room. To him, it felt like a dream. Mozart entered the room, visibly irritated, and asked, “What’s your name? Ludwig?”
Ludwig stood straight and replied, “Ludwig van Beethoven.”
“Hmm,” Mozart said, then asked, “Why are you here? I’m not interested in taking new students.”
Ludwig hesitated, then said, “If you could just hear me play...”
Mozart understood that the boy was persistent. Without another word, he gestured toward the piano in the middle of the room. Beethoven sat down and began playing one of Mozart’s piano symphonies. Midway through, Mozart stopped him, “Anyone can play that...”
Beethoven got up from the piano. “Start a new melody, and I’ll finish it.”
Mozart liked the idea. He sat at the piano, played a new melody, and then got up, letting Beethoven take over. As Beethoven played, Mozart listened intently, growing more and more amazed by his talent.
When Beethoven finished, Mozart didn’t say a word. He got up and left the room, calling out to his wife, “Stanzi, Stanzi!”
Constanze came running. Mozart pointed at Beethoven and said, “Mark my words, this boy will one day make the world take notice.”
Mozart agreed to take Beethoven as a student. Overjoyed, Beethoven felt like he had achieved the greatest honor of his life.
But alas! That very day, urgent news arrived from Bonn—Beethoven’s mother was gravely ill. Reluctantly, he had to return to Germany. Beethoven promised Mozart he would return to Vienna to continue his studies.
A few months later, Beethoven’s mother passed away. He joined an orchestra in Bonn, playing the piano. His father, a tenor singer in the orchestra, was forced into retirement due to his age. Unable to accept this, he often drank and caused trouble. One day, he was arrested, and Beethoven narrowly avoided jail. The condition was that he had to leave Bonn and move to the countryside. His father went to the village, while Beethoven stayed in the city, playing the piano.
During this time, Beethoven’s playing caught the attention of Franz Joseph Haydn. The elderly Haydn, a renowned pianist who often played with Mozart, invited Beethoven to Vienna to work with him.
It took Beethoven nearly two years to return to Vienna. By then, Mozart had passed away at the young age of 35. Beethoven’s dream of studying under him remained unfulfilled.
Haydn’s mentorship didn’t last long, but Beethoven quickly made a name for himself in Vienna. Though he never studied under Mozart, he became his true successor. Over time, Beethoven’s fame spread worldwide.
Beethoven stayed in Vienna for the rest of his life, conquering the world with his music, but he never returned to Bonn.
7
“Milton! Mi-l-t-o-n, are you here?”
I woke up with a start at Gorky Bhai’s call. He always called me by that name—whether affectionately or mockingly, I couldn’t tell.
I opened the door to find Gorky Bhai still lying in bed, shouting, “Were you asleep? I’ve been calling for ages!”
“I wasn’t here, Gorky Bhai. That’s the truth.”
“What do you mean? And what’s that in your hand? That kind of recorder isn’t available anymore!”
“That’s what this whole thing is about, Gorky Bhai...”
I told him everything. I’m not sure if he was paying full attention, but when I finished, he simply said, “Let’s see it work.”
I pressed play, but nothing happened. I tried a few times, but the recorder didn’t make a sound. I hesitated.
Yawning, Gorky Bhai said nonchalantly, “Just because it happened to you doesn’t mean it’ll happen to me.”
With that, he rubbed his eyes and headed toward the door. As he walked down the stairs, he said casually, “Come on, let’s eat.”
Gorky Bhai had a plate full of chilies and rock salt in front of him. He’d take a bite of rice, then munch on a few chilies. It was as if eating chilies was his main goal!
I didn’t say anything, so he said, “Listen, life throws all kinds of unexpected events at you. If you don’t fear them or overthink them, you’ll find a way to enjoy them. Your situation is quite interesting. Enjoy the musical journey, take it easy...”
I smiled and said, “Like Jim Morrison said, ‘Take it as it comes.’”
After leaving Gorky Bhai’s house, I headed to Elephant Road, aiming for Rainbow. I had to go to the alley as per routine. Almost every day, people like me would gather there for long chats.
Imti Bhai said, “David Gilmour.”
Shabbir said, “Ritchie Blackmore.” Then, turning to me, he asked, “Who’s your favorite guitarist, Milon? Name one.”
“Just one? That’s tough! I’ll pass...”
Shohan didn’t hesitate. “Hendrix. Jimi Hendrix is the greatest of all time, no doubt!”
Shabbir said, “What Hendrix did on the electric guitar, Django Reinhardt had already done on the acoustic guitar.”
“Who’s this Django guy?” Shohan grumbled. Their argument began, as it often did. Every day, we’d argue about something, only to start fresh the next day.
Evening was approaching. Instead of going into Rainbow, I started walking home. Shabbir’s words stuck with me. I had read something similar in a foreign magazine. Django, the Gypsy guitarist, had truly revolutionized the way people thought about the guitar. Before him, the guitar was seen mainly as a rhythm instrument. Django introduced it as a lead instrument.
Lost in these thoughts, I reached home. As I entered, my mother asked, “Is this the time to come back? Have you eaten anything?”
I didn’t answer and went straight to my room. I was still thinking about Django and his guitar playing. I took out the recorder...
I took out the recorder and pressed play... The recorder began to vibrate, and I was transported into the world of Gypsy guitar music.
8
A Gypsy band was playing, and Django was on the guitar. Born into a Romani-French Gypsy family, Django lived in a caravan, traveling from town to town across France.
One day, Django was performing at a hotel in Paris. He hadn’t returned to his caravan for several nights, staying at the hotel with his band. But tonight, he decided to go back. He had just gotten married at the age of 17, and he wondered how his wife was managing alone.
On the way, he bought a bouquet of flowers for his wife. He thought about how she must be passing the time alone. As he approached the caravan, he quietly sneaked in, only to be shocked. The caravan was filled with flowers! He thought, *Is this even my caravan? Did I walk into the wrong one?*
He stepped out and carefully inspected the caravan. *No, this is definitely mine. But where did all these flowers come from?*
Just then, his wife, Florine, hugged him from behind and said, “Surprise!”
Django, still confused, asked, “Where did you get all these flowers? What’s going on?”
“I made them.”
“You made the flowers? How?”
“They’re artificial, made of plastic. Didn’t you notice?”
“No, I just took a quick look and thought I’d walked into the wrong caravan. I came to surprise you, but you surprised me instead.”
He handed her the bouquet and added, “But what will you do with so many flowers?”
“I’ve started a business selling them. They sell for a good price.”
“Really? They look beautiful. I couldn’t even tell they were fake.”
“You don’t have to water them, and they last forever.”
“You can choose any color you like,” Florine said, laughing.
Django laughed too. “Looks like you’ll be rich soon. I can retire early...”
Florine said, “No one can make Django Reinhardt retire from playing the guitar.”
They both laughed. Django said, “Let’s go to sleep. We have to leave early tomorrow.”
That very night, disaster struck. A candle in the caravan set the artificial flowers on fire. The flames quickly spread, engulfing the entire caravan. Django wrapped himself in a blanket and managed to save Florine, but they barely escaped with their lives.
The damage was severe. Much of Django’s body was burned. At the hospital, the doctors recommended amputating his right leg. Django refused and didn’t allow it. His left hand was also badly injured, with two fingers rendered useless.
Django moved to a nursing home. After a few months, he could walk with a cane, but his left hand remained mostly paralyzed. Two fingers were completely numb.
But Django never gave up. During his time at the nursing home, he worked tirelessly to recover. He also began practicing the guitar again, determined to play as he once did.
Using only his index and middle fingers, he started practicing chords. He tried to use his damaged fingers to hold down chords, but it was a struggle.
During this time, Django became a huge fan of American jazz. Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and Duke Ellington’s piano captivated him. He stopped listening to gramophone records and began practicing with their music. With just two fingers, he played the guitar strings in a way that mimicked the vibrations of a piano. Django’s two fingers weren’t enough, so he used his damaged fingers to hold down chords while his other fingers danced across the fretboard with incredible speed, like a trumpet player’s rapid notes. To Django, the guitar was no longer just a guitar—it was a new instrument. He had invented a new technique for playing it.
It took Django nearly a year and a half to recover, but he emerged as a master guitarist once again. However, he had to start from scratch, performing at caravans and small clubs. Django was deeply worried. How long could he keep this up?
One day, while performing at a small club, Django heard the sound of a violin. Someone was playing along with his guitar, as if in a musical conversation. Startled, Django looked up and saw the famous violinist Stéphane Grappelli!
Stéphane said, “I’ve never seen anyone play the guitar like this before.”
Stéphane proposed they form a band together. They named their band the Quintette du Hot Club de France. Their new style of music became known as Hot Jazz.
With Stéphane, Django began touring. Their fame spread rapidly across the world.
9
The knocking on the door grew louder. “Milon! M-i-l-o-n, are you here?”
I woke up with a start. It was my middle brother. But wasn’t he supposed to be in India? I quickly hid the recorder and opened the door.
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“I arrived this afternoon, but I couldn’t find you! Where do you disappear to all day?”
“You weren’t supposed to come, were you?”
“No, but I came anyway,” he said, entering the room. “What were you doing? I’ve been knocking for ages.”
I decided not to mention the recorder. No point in sounding crazy!
I asked, “Did you bring any cassettes?”
“I’m only here for a couple of days for work. I didn’t bring anything.”
I felt a little disappointed. My brother rummaged through his pocket and said, “I bought Ravi Shankar’s last two albums. I was listening to them on my Walkman on the way here.”
I was thrilled. “Wow! Ravi Shankar with Philip Glass?”
“‘Passages’... amazing compositions. The other one is great too—‘Tana Mana.’”
I took the cassette and asked, “What does ‘Tana Mana’ mean?”
“Body and mind, the meditation of the mind.”
I opened the cassette sleeve and started reading. “Frank Serafin, an electronic music composer, blended synthesizers and electronic samples with Ravi Shankar’s sitar. This was part of their experimental project, recorded in the ’80s.”
“Really? It’s been released as an album now? That’s huge!”
“George Harrison is also on it, but he doesn’t play the guitar. He’s on synthesizer, autoharp, and backing vocals.”
“They’ve been friends for a long time. You know that, right?”
“Yes, they organized the Concert for Bangladesh together on August 1, 1971.”
“They’ve known each other since the Beatles days. George learned to play the sitar from Ravi Shankar. The first time a sitar was used in a Beatles song was...”
I quickly said, “Norwegian Wood.”
“Who am I telling this to?” My brother yawned and got up. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to eat and sleep. Aren’t you eating?”
“I’ll eat later. See you in the morning.”
I closed the door again. I was still thinking about the Concert for Bangladesh. I took the recorder out of the drawer...
10
Ravi Shankar’s mind was troubled since morning. Although things were going well for him—his sitar music had gained recognition beyond India, reaching the Western world—he couldn’t shake off a deep unease. He had managed to introduce the music of the subcontinent to the global stage, earning a place in people’s hearts.
A documentary film was being made about his life, titled *Raga*. It would cover his journey from birth to his rise in the world of music, his role in bridging Eastern and Western music, and more. The film was in production.
Ravi Shankar was waiting at a bungalow in Big Sur, California, for his friend George Harrison. They were supposed to film together that day. George had come to Ravi to learn the sitar and Indian classical music during his time with the Beatles. In a way, Ravi was George’s guru! They had known each other for many years and were now close friends.
George arrived, and after exchanging pleasantries, he asked, “Ravi, are you okay? You seem distracted...”
“You’re right, my friend,” Ravi said. “I’m deeply worried.”
“What’s troubling you?”
“I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I’ve been thinking about Bangladesh.”
“Bangladesh? Is that a country?”
“Yes, but it’s not yet recognized as an independent nation. There’s a war going on there. You see, I’m also of Bengali descent...”
“Really? I thought you were Indian.”
“I am, but Bangladesh was once part of India. Have you heard of Pakistan?”
“Yes, I think it’s a neighboring country of India.”
“At one time, India, Pakistan, and the country now at war were all part of the same land. In 1947, after British rule ended, the Indian subcontinent was divided into three parts. Well, technically two—India and Pakistan, which was further divided into West Pakistan and East Pakistan. But there was little in common between West and East Pakistan. West Pakistan imposed harsh rule on the East. Even their languages were different, and when West Pakistan tried to impose its language, the people of East Pakistan resisted. This led to the Language Movement in 1952.”
George listened intently, amazed. “A movement for language? I’ve never heard of such a thing...”
“Yes, it was unprecedented. A movement for language had never happened before.”
Ravi paused, then continued, “West Pakistan never treated the Bengalis of East Pakistan well. Their oppression and misrule continued. That’s why this war has broken out. The country is descending into chaos. People are fleeing to India to save their lives.”
Ravi sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about it, George. If only I could do something for that country.”
George thought for a moment, then stood up and said, “What if we organized a concert?”
“A concert? How would that help?”
“Yes, we could ask musicians to perform without taking any payment. All the money raised would go to help Bangladesh. The proceeds from album sales could also be used for the country’s reconstruction.”
“That’s a brilliant idea!”
“We need to make the world aware of this brutality and ensure Bangladesh is recognized as a nation. That’s the most urgent task.”
Ravi added, “We could ask Bob Dylan to perform. He hasn’t been doing regular shows since his motorcycle accident.”
“Yes, I’ll ask Bob to do an acoustic performance.”
George then said, “I’m also thinking of asking Eric...”
“Even after everything that’s happened between you two?”
“Yes. I can’t let personal issues overshadow such a significant cause, Ravi.”
Ravi was impressed. “You’re a great man, George.”
George Harrison and Eric Clapton had been close friends since the Beatles days. George had invited Eric to play guitar on the Beatles’ song *While My Guitar Gently Weeps*. During that time, Eric had become close to George’s wife, Pattie. Their friendship had turned into an affair, which George discovered. Heartbroken, Eric distanced himself.
During that time, a friend told Eric a story from *One Thousand and One Nights*—the tale of Layla and Majnun. The story deeply moved Eric, and inspired by it, he wrote the song *Layla* for Pattie. He released an album under the name Derek and the Dominos but later withdrew from music for a long time.
At George’s invitation, Eric returned to perform at the Concert for Bangladesh. The concert was scheduled for August 1. During rehearsals, everyone showed up except Eric and Bob. George grew anxious.
The concert began, and George introduced Ravi Shankar to the audience. Ravi started by tuning his sitar, and the audience applauded. Ravi smiled and said, “If you liked the tuning, I hope you’ll enjoy the performance even more.”
With that, he began playing. The audience was mesmerized by the Bengali melodies. Next, George was supposed to take the stage.
Bob Dylan arrived at the last minute. He told George, “I haven’t performed in a long time, you know. And an acoustic performance? I’m nervous.”
George reassured him, “Don’t worry, Bob. I’ll be with you.”
But Eric still hadn’t arrived. Just before going on stage, Eric showed up, drunk. George was concerned. “Can you play, Eric?”
Eric said, “Just give me a guitar, any guitar.”
The concert went ahead, thanks to everyone’s selfless efforts. It was the first benefit concert of its kind. At the very end, George Harrison described the situation in Bangladesh and performed the song ‘Bangladesh’, urging everyone to lend a helping hand.
“My friend came to me
With sadness in his eyes
He told me that he wanted help
Before his country dies
Although I couldn’t feel the pain
I knew I had to try
Now I'm asking all of you
To help us save some lives
Bangladesh, Bangladesh
Where so many people are dying fast
And it sure looks like a mess
I've never seen such distress
Now won't you lend your hand and understand?
Relieve the people of Bangladesh
Bangladesh, Bangladesh
Such a great disaster, I don't understand
But it sure looks like a mess
I've never known such distress
Now please don’t turn away
I want to hear you say
Relieve the people of Bangladesh
Relieve Bangladesh
Bangladesh, Bangladesh
Now it may seem so far from where we all are
It's something we can’t neglect
It's something I can’t neglect
Now won’t you give some bread to get the starving fed?
We've got to relieve Bangladesh
Relieve the people of Bangladesh
We've got to relieve Bangladesh
Relieve the people of Bangladesh.”
The Concert for Bangladesh was a historic event, the first of its kind. Organized by George Harrison and Ravi Shankar, it brought together musicians like Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Leon Russell, Billy Preston, and Ringo Starr. Held at Madison Square Garden in New York on August 1, 1971, it was the largest stage show of its time, aimed at raising funds and awareness for Bangladesh during its liberation war.
11
It was late at night. The lights in the room were off, but the guitar by the window seemed to glow. Moonlight streamed in through the window. Was it a full moon tonight?
I was hungry, but I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. I remembered reading in a storybook once that when the hero was hungry, he would open his mouth and “eat” the moonlight. Should I try that?
My eyes fell on the recorder lying on the bed. The play button seemed to shimmer. My hand trembled slightly.
I muttered a line from Shakespeare, “If music be the food of love, play on...”
With that, I pressed the play button...
Before I knew it, I felt wet. Was I standing under a fountain? Yes, that’s where I was! I was drenched under an unknown fountain! And I could hear the sound of the flowing water, like a melody rising and falling. The natural beauty around me and the musical notes made me feel entranced.
As I walked further, I saw a vast ocean. But there was no one around! Walking along the beach, I noticed someone sitting in the distance.
It was a yogi, dressed in ochre robes, sitting on a high rock. His eyes were closed, deep in meditation. He didn’t notice me.
I called out to him a few times, “Where am I? Where am I?”
But the yogi didn’t respond.
I stood right in front of him, watching him. It felt like I was in a dream. Just then, he made a sound, “Om.”
The sound of “Om” sent a vibration through my entire body. Before I could understand what was happening, I was back in my room.
The recorder stopped on its own with a click. It took me a moment to regain my senses. My body was drenched in sweat. I couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened!
I took the cassette out of the recorder. Looking at the tape, I noticed that the spot where it had gotten stuck earlier was now perfectly fine. The creases were gone.
I had heard that music originated from the sound of flowing water, and that the sound “Om” was the root of all music. At that moment, I remembered something that had happened on my way back from the stadium the day before. A group of men were singing as they unloaded a heavy lift from a truck.
“Pull harder, heyo!
Even harder, heyo!
Push harder, heyo!
Even harder, heyo!
Pull with all your might, heyo!
Even harder, heyo!”
It was a work song! I had been thinking about work songs and slavery on my way home.
And then, as I entered the house, I heard Peggy Lee’s “Fever” playing from my sister’s room. The song mentions Pocahontas. That’s how I ended up in Virginia! Well, at least I’ve solved the mystery of last night.
Milon thought to himself, ‘So, if I think about where I want to go, I can go there!’
There was still a long time until dawn. Milon thought, ‘What if I went to another concert?’
In August 1969, a three-day music festival was held in an open field. All the biggest stars of the time performed. The festival was organized to protest the Vietnam War and fight for farmers’ rights. It was a revolution against the US government at the time.
Milon held the recorder and said, “Next stop, Woodstock 1969.”
The recorder began to vibrate...