The Colors of Summer (Brown is the color of mud after a storm) Chapter III – The Final Color

Brown is the color of mud on the pavement during an afternoon shower. Back home where I was born, rainstorms spell unwanted public pools on city roads and pedestrian lanes. Driving a car is as risky as taking a walk. Either the vehicle engine stalls for excessive moisture or we fall upon an open sewerage lid kept that way to reduce further flooding.
Nevertheless, during those times, cable television was non-existing. Video recorded movies were not yet thought of and video games were restricted to a white ball and two parallel white lines burning through a black and white picture tube with a gray screen. When kids declared they were bored, they did not lie. Petty quarrels among siblings were as tumultuous as the afternoon storm.
During those days, it is also common among middle class families to own a piano. Some homes have it as an heirloom, while others have it as a space filler, an elegant chunk of woodcraft and white ivory-coated keys. Since we lived at the center of “Sampaloc”, an old district of Manila, close to the University of Santo Tomas, the piano had a special pedestal. It was not because we wanted to have a stage. It was because flood waters were a common intruder. We cannot allow humidity to enter the piano lest we also run the risk of damaging our auditory faculties. Can you imagine dissonant notes chiming in with bickering kids?
Twice a week, an old bespectacled man came to our house. He walked with a cane on his right hand and donned himself with an attire reminiscent of the Philippine renaissance. Tucked on his left arm was an old brief case stuffed with papers. My mother gave birth to her first child when she was only 19. This gentleman was her piano teacher when she herself was a mere child. And now he teaches me. I see him twice a week. On Mondays and Thursdays, I have an additional task to practice finger dexterity, memorize some pieces and then walk with my “Professor” towards the bus stop. My mom told me that he was more than 75 years old and his wife requested that we walk him to his bus stop lest he ends up in another city.
Fortunately, I enjoyed music. Unfortunately, I disliked the repetitive drills of a Cannon just so to keep my fingers flexible. And I also disliked the idea that I had to memorize the exact placement of notes, the counting of the beats and the silence involved in every measure. I compensated with harmony and simulated embellishments. In other words, I read the basic melody for the G-Cleft side of the piece, the one assigned for the right hand while I improvised everything assigned to the F-Cleft, the one assigned for the left hand. My ability to retain a basic melody made up for my impatience to maintain the accurate execution of a musical composition.
It so happened that my piano “Professor” was an award winning pianist and composer, yet he never bragged of his laurels nor demanded that his students play like him. Most of the time, he only told me to feel what I was playing.
“If you can feel what you are playing, you can play anything that music would want you to feel”, he always said. Then he continues, “You have missed so many notes. I know you did, but you still played the right music. That is good enough. As long as you give shape to music, you will be able to give shape to other things later”.
He never scolded me, never slapped my hand and never said that I was doing the wrong thing. As time passed, I learned to play better and was able to improvise a certain flow. It was at that moment when I stopped learning music and started enjoying it. “Very good”, my Professor said. “Practice more and soon you will no longer need me.
One day, instead of just walking with him to his bus stop, he asked my mom if I could ride with him all the way back to Sta. Mesa, another district of Manila where he lived. He said he was not feeling quite well. I obliged. I was about to go to College and I knew that I could not continue with my piano lessons. Riding with him was a small act of gratitude for the patience and the kindness that he showed a non-conforming pupil.
“When you grow up, it does not matter if you marry a woman who looks like a horse”. And then he started to talk to other ladies in the bus. “We are growing older, are we not?” He joked with the other ladies and they all smile courteously. “When I reach my stop, my time chatting with all of you lovely ladies will be over. Maybe I can see you again”.
The bus happened to stop right in front of his house. We descended, walked towards his house and entered his home where I met his wife. “Oh kumusta hijo? So you are the favorite student he was talking about. He told me last night that you would be coming over to visit me. I am glad you did. Sit, sit and eat”, she said.
So we all sat down, shared some small talk, until I had to say good-bye and thanked them for their generous hospitality. “College will start next week, right? Your Professor said you might no longer have time for piano lessons”. “Oh no,” I said. “There are still so many things that I need to learn”. The Professor was just there, quietly listening to our conversation.
I found myself alone in a bus, going back home. I thought of my days with the Professor. I have not fully realized how fortunate I was to be taught by an award winning composer. He was almost 80 years old the last time I saw him. College took over my life. Piano became a hobby. Rain kept on coming every year, every season. And with it the roads became muddy. Brown took over.
Brown is the color of the soil, the habitat of primordial life, the starting point of plants, trees and other organisms belonging to an endless cycle of prey and predator. Music seems to be a fiber, one of the so many fibers that have given a common point to the parallel growth of various generations. I have not seen my Professor after college. I left and did not even say goodbye to him. How can I be so careless? Brown reminds me that no matter how pure water is, it can be tarnished by the dirt that it meets. And we need to wipe off that dirt, the dirt that forgets to be grateful, and the dirt that covers the sincere beauty behind the unconditional effort to teach, the effort to give.
Rain splattered on the road. The bus stopped. I had to run. Our stories will always have an end. Yet summer comes and goes. As it leaves, we are left with fond memories. And as it comes, we are still reminded of those memories. Our stories end, but life always begins.