Charmaine Sia - Dirge Without Music


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Dirge Without Music At the beginning, none of them could have envisioned that this would become a yearly ritual: every summer, they would ride the train a thousand kilometres to gather, for a night, at one of their abodes, and sing songs to the accompaniment of Daniel playing on the guitar. They had been students who had just completed their final year of school, gathered at a summer camp in the capital to learn about quantum mechanics. By day, they learnt the secrets of the atom; by night, they sat in the patio of their ramshackle accommodation and belted out the tunes of youth to the melodies of Daniel’s guitar while sipping warm milk and honeyed tea. Sometimes they would wander into the garden; once, even onto the roof. At times an irate neighbour would holler at them to quieten down. But they always found a place to sing, and this became their daily routine. And their friendship grew, and the summer passed, and they became university students in different parts of the country. During the last week of final exams in their first year, Brian commented to Andrew, “I wish we could once again sit under the stars and sing songs while listening to Daniel playing on the guitar.” He was met by a thoughtful nod. “Aye, so do I.” And the idea would not go away. The two of them found themselves digging for a telephone number, an address—any method of contacting the others. Letters were written: a date, a place (Brian’s dormitory at university), a telephone number (reponde s’il te plaît)—the plan seemed too preposterous to work. And then the replies came:—Daniel’s first of all—I will be there. And thus they met again, in sultry July, in a dusty dormitory lounge, and sang the familiar songs that they had not sung for a year. And they thanked God for their reunion. The following year, without prompting, Daniel wrote the invitations. And so began this extemporaneous tradition—a date, a place, five men and a guitar. In the fourth year, Michael brought a girl along, and enquired solemnly of the others, “Is it all right if my girlfriend joins in?” They burst into uncontrollable laughter that took minutes to subside (“Michael, did you ever imagine that we would say ‘no’?”). And the smile on Michael’s face was of unparalleled brilliance. And thus their families became a part of this tradition. When Alexander’s wife (when had little Alexander grown up?) was nearing her term, they gathered in his home for a second consecutive year and sang lullabies to the unborn baby. That night became three days when her water broke in the middle of their cheerful crooning and Daniel insisted on playing ditties to the newborn baby. When Brian broke his leg two days before the scheduled meeting day and conveyed his profuse apologies to Andrew, the group showed up at his house unannounced, families in tow, at the appointed time, and Brian could not help but think that music was the best medicine. Sometimes, after Daniel had been playing for hours on end, he would pass the guitar to his son Paul, and they would dutifully sing to Paul’s rendition of the latest smash hits. When Michael’s son married Andrew’s daughter, they took the place of the choir at the insistence of the newlyweds. But this summer’s day they gathered and sang in the absence of the familiar strains of the guitar. Paul had volunteered to play the guitar, but they had graciously declined the offer. Somehow, they had always imagined that Daniel would be there to play at their funerals—how could it be any other way? And so, that summer’s day, they sang—to friendship and old times, to the friend without whose music they would not have been gathered there that day—a dirge without music. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. —Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dirge Without Music

Copyright © Charmaine Sia

Dirge Without Music

At the beginning, none of them could have envisioned that this would become a yearly ritual: every summer, they would ride the train a thousand kilometres to gather, for a night, at one of their abodes, and sing songs to the accompaniment of Daniel playing on the guitar.

They had been students who had just completed their final year of school, gathered at a summer camp in the capital to learn about quantum mechanics. By day, they learnt the secrets of the atom; by night, they sat in the patio of their ramshackle accommodation and belted out the tunes of youth to the melodies of Daniel’s guitar while sipping warm milk and honeyed tea. Sometimes they would wander into the garden; once, even onto the roof. At times an irate neighbour would holler at them to quieten down. But they always found a place to sing, and this became their daily routine.

And their friendship grew, and the summer passed, and they became university students in different parts of the country.

During the last week of final exams in their first year, Brian commented to Andrew, “I wish we could once again sit under the stars and sing songs while listening to Daniel playing on the guitar.” He was met by a thoughtful nod. “Aye, so do I.”

And the idea would not go away. The two of them found themselves digging for a telephone number, an address—any method of contacting the others. Letters were written: a date, a place (Brian’s dormitory at university), a telephone number (reponde s’il te plaît)—the plan seemed too preposterous to work. And then the replies came:—Daniel’s first of all—I will be there.

And thus they met again, in sultry July, in a dusty dormitory lounge, and sang the familiar songs that they had not sung for a year. And they thanked God for their reunion.

The following year, without prompting, Daniel wrote the invitations.

And so began this extemporaneous tradition—a date, a place, five men and a guitar.

In the fourth year, Michael brought a girl along, and enquired solemnly of the others, “Is it all right if my girlfriend joins in?” They burst into uncontrollable laughter that took minutes to subside (“Michael, did you ever imagine that we would say ‘no’?”). And the smile on Michael’s face was of unparalleled brilliance.

And thus their families became a part of this tradition. When Alexander’s wife (when had little Alexander grown up?) was nearing her term, they gathered in his home for a second consecutive year and sang lullabies to the unborn baby. That night became three days when her water broke in the middle of their cheerful crooning and Daniel insisted on playing ditties to the newborn baby.

When Brian broke his leg two days before the scheduled meeting day and conveyed his profuse apologies to Andrew, the group showed up at his house unannounced, families in tow, at the appointed time, and Brian could not help but think that music was the best medicine.

Sometimes, after Daniel had been playing for hours on end, he would pass the guitar to his son Paul, and they would dutifully sing to Paul’s rendition of the latest smash hits.

When Michael’s son married Andrew’s daughter, they took the place of the choir at the insistence of the newlyweds.

But this summer’s day they gathered and sang in the absence of the familiar strains of the guitar. Paul had volunteered to play the guitar, but they had graciously declined the offer. Somehow, they had always imagined that Daniel would be there to play at their funerals—how could it be any other way? And so, that summer’s day, they sang—to friendship and old times, to the friend without whose music they would not have been gathered there that day—a dirge without music.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dirge Without Music