Moonlight Sonata—a piece that holds deep meaning for me, perhaps in the same way, if not more, it did for Beethoven when he created it, even as he was losing his hearing. This story takes you back to my early childhood and explores my over-obsession with this particular piece and why it matters so much to me. For years, I struggled to express these emotions, and it took more than two years to finally bring this story to life in digital form, transcribed from a hidden journal at the back of my closet, written in Bengali so no one else could read it.
It’s funny, it’s brutal, it’s raw— and, more than anything, it’s too damn honest.
So, get ready for a wild, merry-go-round style rollercoaster of emotions. As you read, picture yourself as that young child. And if you play the Moonlight Sonata—first movement—in the background while you dive into these emotions, well, it wouldn’t hurt.
Thank you.
Dedicated to the moustache man!
The Weight of Early Expectations
Beethoven’s childhood was far from easy. His father, Johann van Beethoven, was a man driven by the desire for his son to become a musical prodigy, to rival the likes of Mozart. But his methods were brutal. Johann’s obsession with moulding Beethoven into greatness often came at the cost of Beethoven’s emotional well-being. He was known for using fear and physical punishment to push Beethoven beyond his limits, treating his son more like a means to an end rather than a child with needs of his own.
In a way, my life mirrors this aspect of Beethoven’s early years. While it wasn’t my father, it was my mother who shaped my childhood in ways I am still untangling. Like Johann, she too saw potential—not in music, but in art. And much like Beethoven, my skills were exploited at a time when I should have been allowed to simply be a child. I remember being only eight or nine years old, pushed to teach painting to people twice my age. The weight of those expectations, the constant physical assault, and the relentless pressure to perform felt suffocating.
For 20 rupees per person (which was around 0.60 AUD back in 1999), I used to conduct two-hour Sunday morning classes. At times, I had over 14 students. Yet, despite all the work, none of the earnings ever came into my hands. When I asked for my due, for my small awards, I was tagged selfish and unreasonable by my mother. What should have been a space for creativity and expression became a battleground of control and exploitation.
For both Beethoven and me, the lines between passion and punishment blurred early on. His father used his talent as a means to earn recognition and money, and in many ways, my mother did the same. The world may have seen us as talented young artists, but behind closed doors, we were subjected to forces that took away our innocence. We were more than children; we were commodities.
Yet, even through these early hardships, the love for our craft remained. Beethoven, despite his father’s abuse, could not turn away from music, just as I couldn’t turn away from art. That’s something I relate to deeply—the idea that even when love is tainted by painful experiences, it doesn’t necessarily die. Instead, it becomes something we hold onto, something that, in its own way, saves us.
Love and hate
Love, for Beethoven, was as complicated as his music—layered, intense, and filled with yearning. He was never married, me not just yet, despite falling deeply in love multiple times. Much of his romantic life was marked by longing and heartbreak. The women he loved were often unreachable, separated by social class, circumstance, or personal reservations.
India has a class system!
No, it doesn’t, used to be in the past…
Hold my beer!
Beethoven knew that divide too well. One of his great loves, Josephine Brunsvik, was a Hungarian countess. She belonged to the aristocratic class, and Beethoven, despite his genius, couldn’t cross that social barrier. His love for her, and the societal constraints that kept them apart, mirrored the restrictions imposed on love and relationships that I’ve felt at times. It’s frustrating, isn’t it, when things beyond your control dictate matters of the heart?
His letters to the “Immortal Beloved” remain some of the most passionate expressions of unfulfilled desire, hinting at a deep well of emotion that was never fully reciprocated.
Every part of my creative outlet, display is an exhibition itself,
– tending to be the immortal beloved!
Isn’t that funny?
Well life is funny!
And I’ve written a fair few love letters myself, handing them directly to the person. I never hide my feelings.
In many ways, I find echoes of Beethoven’s love life in my own experiences. Love, for me, has often felt just out of reach. I’ve given my heart, my energy, and my care, only to find myself left standing in the shadows, waiting for someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—meet me halfway. Like Beethoven, I have poured my affection into someone who remained distant, guarded, unavailable.
His music reveals that he understood the pain of unrequited love, and I relate to that. The vulnerability of offering yourself fully, only to be met with uncertainty, hesitation, or even rejection, creates a wound that’s hard to heal. Beethoven’s inability to find lasting love mirrors my own search for connection, where deep feelings sometimes lead to disappointment. There’s a familiar ache in wondering whether love can truly be shared when one person holds back, no matter how much you give.
But like Beethoven, I’ve found that these struggles don’t just live in isolation—they seep into everything else. His music became an outlet for his emotions, the unspoken feelings, the longing, and the loss. For me, my writing, poetry and art serve a similar purpose.
Since when did you become a poet?
Well, I’m not a poet.
I get too emo sometimes, and do a word vomit on a piece of paper.
So, you’re a poet?
I’m not!
When love feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, or when silence is the only response to my words, I turn to my creative world to process the weight of it all. I think Beethoven and I both understand that art and love are intertwined. They come from the same raw, vulnerable place within us. And when one fails, the other becomes a way to survive the emptiness it leaves behind.
Wow! You are exposing yourself to the world, showing that you’re weak.
I don’t think this counts as weak.
You have to have courage to be able to express your vulnerability with pride.
People think it’s a taboo.
It’s not!
Beethoven’s struggle was never just about not having love; it was about yearning for the depth of connection he knew he could give, but couldn’t receive. I feel that deeply. There’s always a hope that one day, someone will hear the music—the passion, the care, the devotion—and respond in kind. But until then, like Beethoven, I turn that yearning into something I can hold onto: the art, the words, the expressions of a heart that still believes in love, even when it seems far away.
Forgotten, not forgiven
One of the things that bugs me the most—
I used to scribble small Bengali poems, more like fragmented thoughts, pouring out in the quiet of my childhood, through my teenage years, even into early adulthood. I’d hide them between the pages of school notebooks, keeping them safe from the world. After all, I wasn’t a poet. Who was I kidding? People would laugh.
And then one day, without warning, my dad sold all my books to a raddiwala—the man who buys old papers and books, turns them into paper bags to carry the weight of other people’s groceries. He sold them to make room for—well, who knows what?
Those memories, those small pieces of me—gone, never to be recovered.
Beethoven, in his own way, knew this kind of loss. Not just the heartbreak of love, but the slow erasure of what mattered most. His hearing slipped away, and with it, the ability to hear his own creations as they were meant to be heard. He may have written symphonies that were immortal, but so much was lost before it even made it to the page. In a way, those unwritten notes, those lost fragments of genius, might feel like my scattered Bengali poems—both gone, leaving behind only the sting of absence.
Maybe it’s better that way. Or maybe, it still stings.
Obsession Over the Melody
I was probably 7 or 8 years old when it happened.
My parents had taken me to a local fair. Amid the chaos of bright lights, laughter, and street vendors, my eyes were drawn to a wooden Ferris wheel that a local craftsman was making and selling, right there on the street. It wasn’t like any Ferris wheel I had ever seen—it operated with a metal key. You’d turn it clockwise a couple of times, and it would rotate, little wooden figures jiggling in their tiny boxes, going round and round.
But it wasn’t just the design that caught my attention.
It was the melody. The sweetest sound poured out of it, a simple tune that danced along with the wheel’s rotation. I didn’t know what it was or where it came from; all I knew was that it had this haunting, almost magical quality. The soft, delicate da da da-three notes tugged at something deep inside me. It was the kind of melody that sticks with you, lingers in your mind long after you’ve heard it.
And in that moment, all I wanted was to hear it again and again.
“I want it” I whispered and pointed my little finger to my dad.
He smiled, approached the man selling the toy, and asked,
“How much is it?”
I can’t remember the price, but I do remember it was expensive.
“You sure you want it?” my dad asked, as I looked up at him with puppy eyes.
My mom shot me a deadly look, her silent warning loud and clear: ‘We’ll go home, and you’ll be beaten to death for asking for it. I’m not kidding.’
But my dad said,
“It’s alright” and paid for the toy that came neatly packed in a box.
We had just entered the fair, and it was the first stall we saw. All I wanted to do was run back home and start playing with it, but my parents? They wanted to see the whole fair. Eat food. Buy tea-cups. Apparently, that’s where you got the best sets with the best deals, with a little bargaining, of course.
It was like a yearly tradition for my mom to buy a set of 6 cups. Every year, without fail. And by the end of the year? All those cups would be broken. You see, my dad breaks them all… And that’s kind of the spine of this whole story. He just likes to break stuff! Hmmm… so hold on!
I didn’t pay the slightest attention to the rest of the night. All I wanted was to rip open that box and listen to the wheel turn, hear that melody again—the one that had caught my heart.
Eventually, we went home. It was dinner time. We’d only had snacks at the fair, but I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to play.
But my mom kept giving me the death stare, her silent message reminding me of my unfinished homework. Tomorrow was Monday, and I had school. My math assignment was due, and I hadn’t even started. My eyes kept wandering to the box, trying to find a chance to open it.
“Come for dinner” my mom shouted; her voice heavy with anger.
I grabbed the box and sat down on the floor.
“I’m going to throw it away if you don’t eat and study now” she snapped.
“I want to play!” I said, a little too loudly.
The slap came out of nowhere—bam! And the tears started flowing. I was a cry-baby. What else are you supposed to do after a slap? Dance?
“It’s okay, let him play” my dad mumbled through his food.
“No need to pamper him” my mom shot back.
“He’s useless, he’ll ruin our name.”
I kept crying, shoving food in my mouth, not tasting any of it.
The box sat next to me, staring at me while I cried, trying to focus on finishing my homework.
Somehow, the night passed. I finished my homework, still crying.
“I finished my homework” I said.
“Where?” my mom demanded.
“Here” I said, pointing at my notebook.
“Fine, play, but fast. You need to go to bed. One day, you’ll drive me to my grave with your behaviour, useless boy (Opodartho chele).”
I picked up the box and went to sit in the corner. Slowly, I inserted the key, placed the toy on the floor, and watched as it began to turn. And then—the melody. Da da da…
I was over the moon.
For 15 or maybe 20 minutes, I was lost in that little world. My dad, on the other side of the room, smoking a cigarette, asked,
“Show me. Can I play for a little bit?”
Sure, he can! He paid for it after all, right?
“Yes, of course, Dad! But only once—then I want to play” I said, still holding onto my happiness, the biggest smile plastered on my face as I handed it over to him.
Just as he was about to start, Mom shouted from the kitchen, her voice echoing through the room.
“Go ahead, spoil him more. He’ll never study, and soon he’ll be begging on the streets with that damn toy.”
I handed the toy to my dad.
He turned the key—then again. “It’s stuck” he said.
“What?”- My heart skipped a beat.
He pushed the key harder, and before I knew it, the whole thing collapsed on the floor. Time seemed to slow down as I watched the pieces scatter. The little wooden figures that once danced around joyfully now lay still, broken, just like my excitement. The melody I had been so eager to hear again was silenced before it could even begin.
My chest tightened. My world, so filled with joy just moments before, suddenly felt empty. All I could do was stare at the shattered remains, feeling like something inside me had broken along with it.
“Oh no!” my dad said, stunned, but his voice felt distant, like I was hearing it from far away. The one thing that had brought me happiness, however fleeting, was now just a pile of broken wood on the floor.
“Ki holo?” my mom asked from the other room (meaning what happened?). Neither my dad nor I said a word. The silence between us was thick, like we both knew what was coming next but were too afraid to face it.
I slowly bent down and picked up the key from the floor, as if holding it could somehow reverse what had just happened. But it didn’t. The damage was done.
She walked in, her eyes immediately locking onto the broken toy, pieces scattered across the floor. The key was still in my hand, clutched tightly as if it was the last thread of hope I had left. But it wasn’t hope. It was guilt, even though I hadn’t broken it.
And then—more slaps-bam-bam!!. On my cheeks, my back, my hands—everywhere. Too many of them, coming from every possible direction. It was like a storm of blows, relentless, leaving me numb to where the next one would land.
“Leave it” my dad said softly.
“Don’t come in between! You’re the reason he’ll never succeed” she screamed. (“Chup koro, tomake majhe aste hobena! Tomar jonnoi eto baar bereche, konodin unnoti hobena ei cheler.”)
“You little bastard (well, not really, but that’s what the direct translation is), you think you’ve grown up too much, huh? It’s my turn now to beat the crap outta you.” (“Haramzada, khub baar berechis na? Aaj tor ekdin, ki amar ekdin.”)
Oof, the slangs my mother used when she was angry. The English language doesn’t even have those words in its dictionary. And the way she could string them together—it was like an art form in itself, though one I never wanted to be on the receiving end of.
I went to bed that night, still crying, still holding the broken pieces of the toy in my little hands. That melody—the one I had only heard once when I played it and a little bit when the man who made the toy played it on the street—echoed in my mind. Da da da… It was like a ghost of a tune that refused to leave, even as the toy lay shattered beside me.
——— da da da ———
It was almost always the same routine. No matter what I did, I’d be beaten for one reason or another. I’d go to bed crying, tears soaking my pillow as I planned my escape. It wasn’t an unfamiliar thought—running away. Leaving everything behind, with no money, no destination, but at that moment, it seemed like the only option.
When your own mother tells you you’re useless, that you’ll never amount to anything, you start to believe it. I wasn’t good at school, and I hated studying. I wasn’t the topper of the class, so what was the point in trying? Whether I put in the effort or not, I was going to be beaten anyway. What’s the use of pretending?
I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, running through the possibilities. Maybe I could just leave. Walk out the door, take my bag, and disappear. Someone would find me, wouldn’t they? If I sat by the river long enough, surely someone would take me in. Or maybe I’d go to the temple, become a priest. They didn’t need to be good at chemistry, did they? Or maybe I could catch a train—but I didn’t even know where I’d go.
The truth was, I didn’t know where I belonged. My home didn’t feel like a place I wanted to stay, but everywhere else seemed just as unreachable. Still, the thought of escaping, of running away to somewhere—anywhere—was like a small flicker of hope on nights when I felt like I couldn’t take the pain anymore.
But where would I even go?
…
And then the next morning, everything would shift. My mom would come to me like I was the best son in the world, as if nothing had happened the night before. She’d smile and prepare my favourite food, setting it in front of me as though offering some kind of peace—a truce. And in those brief moments, I’d feel like maybe—just maybe—I was loved, like the storm had passed.
But it never lasted long. Those moments of warmth were always fleeting, like the calm before another wave of chaos. As soon as I sat down with my books to study, the shift would come again. Slaps—bam!—out of nowhere. What even was that? One second I was being fed my favourite meal, and the next, I was being hit for not understanding my homework, for not being good enough.
It was like living in two different worlds. One minute, I was the golden child, and the next, I was worthless again. It was very weird, the way love and punishment seemed to blur together, never knowing which side of my mother I’d get on any given day.
And in between the struggle and my determination to run away from home, all I could remember was that three-tone melody—da da da—playing over and over in my mind. I had no idea who had created that music. Was it the local craftsman? Maybe he was some secret musical genius, sitting there on the street selling Ferris wheels and composing tunes on the side. But, unfortunately, Shazam wasn’t a thing back then! So I was left to wonder, haunted by the melody that seemed to stay with me, as if it knew something I didn’t.
Years went by, and no, I didn’t run away. Thank goodness. I did try my best, though! After my private classes, I would ride my bicycle, wandering through unknown neighbourhoods far from home with absolutely no intention of coming back. It felt like a kind of escape, even if it was just temporary. But eventually, hunger would set in, and I’d realize I had no money and only one extra set of clothes packed—just in case. Reality always had a way of pulling me back. So, I’d turn around and head home, defeated but still dreaming of the day I’d make my grand escape.
My mother, always suspicious, caught on to me once. She checked everything I touched, as if I were constantly up to no good. What could she have been thinking? That I was stashing stolen money that fell out of my dad’s pocket? Hidden away some secret, scandalous cutout photos? (No, I was too much of a wimp for that.) Cigarettes, maybe? Nope, never had those either. But somehow, that extra piece of clothing I always packed for emergencies caught her attention every time.
It was like she had a sixth sense for my failed escape plans.
So many memories from that time have faded away, slipping into the shadows of forgotten days. The only ones that stayed were the moments that burned themselves into my mind. The terror. The slaps. The grand escape plans—far too many of them—that never quite happened. The grudge I held against my dad for breaking my toy, and the fact that I got beaten up for it anyway. But most of all, the memory that refused to leave was that melody—da da da—echoing endlessly in my head, as if it was trying to tell me something I couldn’t quite grasp.
Endurance
Music has always been a part of my life, just as it was for Beethoven. For me, it wasn’t classical Western compositions at first—it was Indian classical music, especially the songs written by Rabindranath Tagore. There’s something in classical music that has always kept me hooked. Even today, I can’t quite explain why, but there’s a power in it, a kind of peace that I can’t find anywhere else.
It’s almost as if the music reaches into something deeper. Even the loudest, most intense pieces bring me a sense of calm. It’s like my therapy. I don’t just listen; I feel as though I’m touching the music, becoming a part of it.
Beethoven, too, had a deep, unshakable love for music, even when life threw its hardest challenges at him. His growing deafness didn’t stop him; in fact, it fueled him. He was connected to music in a way that transcended his physical limitations. In a similar way, my passion for art and music has been a source of resilience, driving me forward through the difficult moments of my life.
Like Beethoven, I’ve faced my own battles. He had ill health, loneliness, and the gradual loss of his hearing, but those struggles didn’t define him. They only deepened his artistry. My struggles have shaped me, too—emotionally and creatively. Art and music have been my way of processing the world around me. When everything else felt like chaos, music, painting, and writing have been my constant, anchoring me, helping me turn pain into something meaningful, even though all the childhood pieces are now scrubbed away over an oil stain from a hot samosa that came wrapped in my hidden squiggle words.
Isolation, too, became a space of creativity for Beethoven. As his hearing slipped away, he had to turn inward, relying on his thoughts and imagination to create the music that would live on forever. In my own way, I’ve found solace in those internal worlds, using music and art to process complex emotions.
Beethoven’s legacy endures because of his determination to keep creating, even when it felt impossible. And like him, I want to leave behind something that lasts—whether it’s through my art, writing, or poetry. My work, however small or large, is my way of making sure that my voice, my experiences, and everything I’ve been through doesn’t fade away. My art is my endurance.
The Grand Entrance of Georgii Cherkin
I’ve loved music all my life, but I have no formal knowledge of it. I never studied it, never took lessons, and didn’t know how to read a single note. But that never stopped me from being drawn to it, from feeling that pull, that connection. My knowledge was limited to Indian classical music, which is, in itself, something truly amazing—there’s nothing like it. The world needs to hear and learn more about Indian classical music.
No, Susan, Bollywood is not Indian classical!
Back then, I had no idea classical music even existed outside of India. To me, classical meant one thing—Indian classical music. That was it. The idea that there could be other kinds of classical music never even crossed my mind. Television was a rich person’s commodity, and on the radio, you’d only hear the works of Rabindranath Tagore, or the deep voices of Amitabh Bachchan and Soumitra Chatterjee—both absolute geniuses, legends of Indian cinema and arts.
It was either Bengali classical or endless political discussions, which my dad preferred over any kind of music.
Music who?
I remember going to every fair, year after year, hoping I’d see the man selling that wooden Ferris wheel again. I can still picture his face clearly! The man with the thin-cut face, thick moustache, and a little scar on his cheek, and so thin— almost like a stick figure. He seemed almost unreal, like a figure who had just appeared out of nowhere, just to sell me that one toy—the one that broke after just one play. My dad’s fault, by the way!
I started saving up money, the little bits you get from relatives when you visit them. You know, the kind they give you to buy chocolates, clothes, or books. But no matter how much I saved, he was never there. I never saw him again. It was as if he had vanished, like a fairy from another world, only meant to cross my path for that fleeting moment.
It wasn’t easy saving money, especially when it came only once a year and wasn’t much. I held onto every single penny, hoping that one day I’d have enough to buy that toy again. And while I was technically earning—teaching art classes for 20 rupees a head—none of that money ever came to me. That was just how it was.
But there was another way to save: the occasional loose change lying around the house. Sometimes I’d spot a coin on the floor that might have slipped from my dad’s pocket, or a bit of forgotten cash left on the window ledge. And let’s be honest—I wasn’t going to return it. What kid would? I wasn’t some holy priest who’d hand it back with a noble smile. Come on, I wasn’t that good.
And I didn’t have to be noble. I got beaten daily, so in my mind, taking the money I found on the floor was just balancing the scales. My small revenge.
Finders, keepers, winners! Right?
——— da da da ———
Sometimes I think my dad intentionally left the cash for me. My mom would never agree to me having money, and she was dead set against my dad pampering me. Or maybe my dad always knew I was picking it up, but he just let me have it, choosing not to say anything. It’s interesting, really—both my parents loved me so much, but the way they showed love was a bit… rookie!
I used to beat the back of some utensils with a spoon, trying to recreate that tone I heard, but it only ever came out as crazy noise, like someone was beating up a cat!
Slap—bam!
“Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, will never enter this house if you beat utensils” my mom would say. She was very andhvishwasi—superstitious to the core.
She still is! Funny thing, though—she became the mother I always needed as a child after I left home back in 2008- My grand escape finally happened. But that’s a whole different story for a whole different occasion.
Here, we’re talking about ~ love ~ Beth ~ love.
——— da da da ———
I now have access to the internet!
With access to the internet, Google quickly became my new best friend. I thought, maybe, just maybe, the internet could help me find the man who created that Ferris wheel in my village. I spent months, even years, searching. I must have looked at every Ferris wheel available online, but none of them was what I was looking for. The man, the toy, the melody—it was all lost to time. Eventually, I gave up hope.
Plus, life had other challenges. Daily ragging, getting slapped around by seniors—it wasn’t exactly a fun time.
No, Anthony, slaps aren’t a “joyride.”
It’s called physical assault! Let me educate you on that. It doesn’t make anyone stronger; it leaves years of trauma—something your macho, patriarchal brain will never understand.
Tell that to the people who left the university because they couldn’t take the physical and mental torture anymore. Thanks for running their dreams into the ground—dreams they carried with them when they moved thousands of kilometres, leaving everything behind!
You want respect, seniors? Earn it! You won’t get mine by slapping me around. Here’s a banana instead. Take it.
Now, YouTube is a thing! And I’ve got access to a colored display phone—yes, that’s a thing! Today’s generation will never understand how incredible that time was, switching from the black-and-white Nokia screens to the vivid colors of a Sony Ericsson. YouTube was where you’d try to find movies someone had illegally uploaded, and the whole experience felt like the world was at your fingertips.
——— da da da ———
Year 2011.
I was playing with the Ferris wheel again. I had the key in my hand, turning it as I did all those years ago. The joy I felt was overwhelming, like I was holding pure happiness in my hands. My heart soared as the wheel began to spin, and I think I even started dancing, swaying in that small, private world of mine, completely lost in the moment.
Then—bam!
Someone slammed the door in the hostel room, and I jolted awake from probably the best dream I’d had in a really long time. The joy drained from me as reality rushed back in. It was just a dream.
But suddenly, the memories came flooding in—the da-da-da of the three-tone melody, echoing like it had never left.
Where’s my phone?– as if it was calling out to me.
I started searching on YouTube—Ferris wheel toy sound. I found so many beautiful pieces, but none of them matched that melody I’d been chasing for years. None of them had that exact three-rhythm tone. I scrolled and scrolled until a thumbnail caught my eye. A gorgeous man, seated at a piano.
Oh, he’s hot!
Click.
And then—my heart stopped.
No, I wasn’t dreaming. Avik, you’re not dreaming, I told myself, pinching my arm with all the pressure I could muster.
I wasn’t dreaming. This time, it was real.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen. There he was, this beautiful man, running his gentle fingers across the piano, producing the most magical melody I’d ever heard. It was the melody—the one I’d been searching for my entire life. I was over the moon. That sound, that music—it was all there, flowing effortlessly from his hands.
Who is this guy?
Google search: Georgii Cherkin.
Hello, Wikipedia!
It was Georgii Cherkin, the Bulgarian pianist who had just played the music of my lost soul, my grand escape melody—the very same one that the thick-moustached man had somehow stolen and placed into that Ferris wheel for me all those years ago. The one my dad broke!! The music had haunted me for so long, and now, it played on repeat on my phone for months. Back then, YouTube didn’t even have ads to interrupt the flow. I could just sit there and listen, uninterrupted, as if I had won the jackpot of life. I was never bored of that piece. I was so completely lost in the music that I hadn’t even read the title of the video before clicking on the thumbnail.
It was only months later that I realized what it was called.
Oh, it’s called the Moonlight Sonata.
Okay, gorgeous Georgii, so who actually wrote the Moonlight Sonata. And how did the fairy, moustache-twirling man steal it just to introduce me to this magical piece of music?
I want to learn piano now, just so I can play this myself. The idea of my fingers recreating that melody felt like the most beautiful dream.
Stop kidding yourself, I thought. You can’t even afford a piano.
Beethoven finally appeared
Years went by, and I was still listening to the Moonlight Sonata—composed by Georgii, or so I thought. I’d play it on repeat, feeling every note as if it was stitched into the fabric of my being. I kept thinking, I need to meet this man, to thank him for composing the melody that had followed me throughout my life. I started planning my next grand escape: to meet the Moonlight Sonata maker and tell him my story, how I finally found him, and what this piece meant to me.
By this time, I wasn’t even in my own country. My second grand escape had already taken place, and here I was, planning the third.
But first, let’s do some research.
Who is Georgii Cherkin? Let’s dig deeper.
What’s this word—Beethoven? Is that some kind of musical term?
I clicked.
Oh, it’s an old man with funny hair. He looks kind of rude, if I’m honest. But wait! What?! It wasn’t Georgii who invented the three-tone melody after all. It was him! That old, grumpy-looking man with the wild hair. The man I had been avoiding, thinking he was just some ancient figure in history.
That’s when my obsession shifted. I needed to know more about this rude-looking man who had somehow created the melody that had lived in my mind for years. The more I learned, the deeper I got into his world. I started learning about Western classical music and discovered another composer called Chopin. His music felt romantic, almost like it was meant to be loved. I enjoyed it, but something about Beethoven kept calling me back. There was a rawness, a depth in his music that I couldn’t shake. It felt like he had reached out through time, through the pain and confusion of my life, to tell me something.
Who knew this is how Beethoven would introduce himself to me? Through years of physical abuse, slaps—bam!—and multiple failed grand escape plans. If someone ever made a musical theatre of my life, Beethoven would be the soundtrack.
I continued learning more about Western classical music, pouring my soul into understanding it. But where I was living at the time, Western classical music wasn’t exactly a thing. The only thing I could do was watch YouTube videos of gorgeous Georgii playing piano, over and over again.
As the years passed, I learned more about Beethoven, the rude-looking gentleman. I discovered his struggles, his hearing loss, his difficult relationship with his father, and his relentless search for love. I saw parts of myself reflected in his life, and that connection only grew stronger.
Then, I finally had access to concerts—real, live orchestras! My third grand escape. What!!!! I think I went crazy. It was like therapy, sitting there among the hundreds of white-haired people, while I, with my black hair, was one of the very few young faces in the room. Isn’t that funny? The music was loud, dramatic, sometimes chaotic, but in the middle of all that, I found peace. Each concert felt like a healing session, a way to work through everything that life had thrown at me.
To this day, I still don’t fully understand why I’m so deeply into this music- this genre. Maybe it’s tied to my childhood, to the moustache man, or to the many failed grand escape plans. Who knows? Maybe we don’t need to understand it all to feel it, to connect with it on some deeper level.
Beethoven, despite losing his hearing, created some of the most magnificent music in history. His passion and determination never faded, even when life was at its hardest. In a way, I see myself in him—the constant search for something more, for connection, for meaning. He never married, and he spent his life looking for love.
Same goes for me, for now.
But until now, things are changing. I can feel it. There’s a shift, like the winds of change blowing in my direction.
I have my own piano. I can play the three-tone melody myself.
Da… da-da… da… da-da… da-da-da da-da-da…
Anxiety who? Beethoven and gorgeous Georgii have my back. Just put on the headphones and start hitting those keys.
It’s 3 AM.
Quasi una fantasia.
The next grand escape is already in motion.
Dedicated to the moustache man.
…and to gorgeous Georgii
Love you Beth
The Characters
by Avik Nandy
Words of the Reader
” Wow! That was so intense! Thank you for sharing. It was a lot, and I can see a clearer picture of how you became this person. It has such an open-ended and raw message, which I honestly think will help a lot of people. It felt like I stepped into your life. All the things you mentioned couldn’t have been easy. I’m so glad that you found Beethoven.”
” As expressive as your ‘Beth’oven. You are a great storyteller, and you should be very proud of this one. I know it wasn’t easy. “
“ an emotional rollercoaster “
“It is such clever writing. I was amazed and enjoyed reading it so much, even with its brutal honesty. But now, I really want you to play the Moonlight Sonata for me so I can listen.”
“The ending was my favorite part. It’s amazing! It’s like a sonata in itself.”
“This story resonates deeply and sparks curiosity. Your stories will liberate souls, heal wounds, and inspire others”
“Sometimes in the sharing is working it out. 🙏”
“That was the most beautiful and heart-wrenching piece I have read in a long time, and I read it while listening to the 1st movement and was surprised at how poignant it felt for me right now”
“What an amazing story you have to tell. So very moving…and inspiring. It takes an incredibly strong person to move beyond the hurt. You are amazing and it is so wonderful that you have this gift of art and writing to share your story.”
“It’s very heartwarming and beautifully written. I’m so happy you found an avenue for escape and healing through Moonlight Sonata and it’s great (and important) you’re creating a space for sharing more life experience stories”
“It broke my heart a little bit to hear what you went though, but it was very brave to share and I loved how you are able to express it all in such a beautiful and creative way!! I had to listen to Moonlight Sonata and it definitely took on new poignance – and I love how much it meant to you and how you are now using it to help others! “
“it’s so true that we all have those childhood traumas that stick with us, even if we don’t always share them. It feels like everyone wants to paint a perfect picture of their childhood, like it’s straight out of a fairy tale! But I just love how you’re being so open about your journey and encouraging others to do the same. It takes a lot of bravery to be real, and I’m super proud to call you my friend! You’re truly inspiring everyone to embrace their stories and live life to the fullest!”
“What a powerful, raw and unapologetically real story that was. I feel like I’ve caught a glimpse of the core of your being.”
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