Swan Lake's first failure? Perhaps the audience wanted only grand, predictable joy, like those pandal committees who only order ten-handed Ma Durgas and never my little clay squirrels. That cannon in 1812 Overture feels real to me, because my new electric kiln thunders just as startlingly when it fires. And Tchaikovsky's sad end... in my workshop, we only talk of how his tunes make even the monsoon mud smell sweet, like *moshla er gondho* from Ma's kitchen. Some stories are better heard in the melody, not the last note.
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