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. 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. And yet its keys remain untouched. White and black in perfect order. Silent. Patient.
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.
I opened the piano. The lid rose like an eyelid finally waking from sleep. I played a few notes. I am no pianist. 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 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.
I decided then that I would play the piano every day. Not to impress anyone. Not to become accomplished. But simply to let it speak. To honour its purpose rather than reduce it to decoration.
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 it is time we listened, truly listened, to minds we have kept silent for far too long.
The piano laughed. A soft, wooden laugh, because for the first time in a long while, it was no longer just a showpiece…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
