The man was puzzled. He could not believe that the Alien had travelled over such immense distances and come to Earth—only to hear the enrapturing music which his ancestors had once recorded on Earth and taken with them, to preserve over the centuries. Even though they were to fly above the Earth and pick up sounds from the surface, it was a gargantuan task, finding out a particular kind of music from the innumerable varieties in the world. But the Alien was persistent and they may have yielded.

The Alien And the Man first picked up strains from the continent of North America. The Alien was puzzled. The loud, mind—boggling music sounded like that from his own planet, the kind they played long ago in their advanced society. It was not the unique music he wanted to hear. So they flew southwards. They picked up notes of songs that the Mexicans sung softly around the working fire. The alien remained impassive. They flew further down. May be the wild abandon in the beats of the Samba drums, deep in the Brazilian forests, would move the Alien, the Man thought. It did not.

With remarkable ease, they flew over the Pacific to the Australian continent. They picked up the primitive music that the Maoris played. The Alien did not respond. Disappointed, they were flying northwards when the Alien glanced Lack. He pointed his finger at the ice-cap of Australia but the Man said, “There is no music to be found there”.

“Why ?” the Alien asked.

“Because it is a dead continent” The man mused, May be that’s why they call it dead, because there’s no music there”.

They flew to Asia, The Alien, heard the Japanese and Chinese peasants sing their songs in a rich baritone, the Indian musicians practicing their music for hours to achieve perfection, the wail of the Bhutanese trumpets, the vigorous chants of the Afghan tribesmen, the tinkling of bells in the Himalayan temples. But still he remained quite unimpressed.

Africa, too, with its varied tribal music, held no charm for the Alien. They flew to Europe, heard the deep bass and treble voices of the opera singers, the solemn, haunting music of Bach, Beethhovens and Mozart, the gay strumming of the lyre of the Hungarian peasants, the banjo calling the end of the day for the gypsies of central Europe; the Alien was unmoved. But he was still eager to search, to seek the music that had stolen his heart. The Man was exhausted; he was tired of this futile quest. Resolving not to move another step, the Man sank down on a meadow in some unidentifiable place. The Alien had no choice but to follow. After bearing such a wide variety and vista of music, the Man sat back and savoured the sounds of silence.

Suddenly, the Alien’s face lit up. He leapt to his feet and cried out, ‘This is it This is it !” The man was puzzled, and must about to speak out when the Alien put his fingers to his lips and softly whispered, “Listen!”

The Man did so - very hard. The wind was whistling through the tree of a nearby wood. A brook murmured as it rippled by. The birds chirped in harmony. A cuckoo lent its enchanting voice to the performance. The Alien’s eyes shone. “Can’t you hear it? Haven’t any of you heard, it, all these years? This is it - the music of Earth.

Realization dawned upon the man. This was the perfect harmony, the enrapturing notes, the thrilling music that Nature had practiced to perfection in centuries and given to Man to be enjoyed by him. As somewhere deep in the woods, a picnic party put on the blaring notes of the latest ‘rock’ number, the Man mused — in the mad, mad race for progress, mankind has become so unreceptive, so ignorant.


Anand Narasimhan
Std.XII ‘B’, 1994