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I used to wonder why I played the piano. Nowadays, however, I don't think I need to ask that question anymore. When you have spent fourteen years doing something, it stops being a question of need or reward. It no longer demands a reason, because it has become an integral part of your life. My joys, my triumphs, my setbacks, my sorrows; they are as much a part of my overall life story, as they are a part of my musical experience.

I still remember the day in kindergarten when I was introduced to the piano. It was a rather chilly winter day. The piano itself, really, was not the stuff of legends. It was actually sort of falling apart. But as I struck the key, the sound! The very sound of it, sweet, clear, wondrous. Like nectar. I was hooked. And I played. And played. And played. Random notes, not much of musicality. But I played.

And I was hooked.

I don’t think I remember much else about that day. Its memory, really, sort of resembles one of those fuzzy sepia portraits. The room did not bear much in terms of distinguishing features. And the substitute teacher who had introduced us to music to quell us querulous children, was rather nonchalant. But it stuck, the memory of that day. It stuck, like a portrait of a chapter of life.

And it was to stay, the thread of music. It was to grow, as I grow, and its story was to intertwine until it is no longer distinguishable from the story my life itself.

(Eight Years Later, at the Nationals of Canadian Music Competitions, in Ottawa)

As I ascended the stage, performed an awkward little bow, and sat myself down on the monstrously large piano chair, my nerves seemed to have reached a breaking point.
I started off rather inconspicuously. But to my abject horror, it soon degenerated into a rush melange of sounds seemingly complete in its detachment from my control.
For the next fifteen minutes, as my ice-cold hands raced to...