The Story of Nilay’s Dream – Part 3
I’m on flight BA663, the familiar Larnaca-to-Heathrow route, brimming with a mix of excitement and curiosity and a healthy dose of anxiety. Remembering the flight number after twenty years might paint me as some sort of detail-obsessed oddity, but it stuck with me as I composed a piece after it and named it after that inconspicuous number. I pulled a notebook from my bag—an unusual find, as I hardly ever wrote back then. Maybe some part of me sensed I’d want to write down a few thoughts during my flight. I scribbled about how much I despised Cyprus and my relief at leaving it behind, eager to immerse myself in “civilization” and explore the wonders of a so-called first-world country.
A deep breath later, I set my pen down and let my thoughts drift, indulging in a hopeful vision of what the future might hold. But my daydream took a darker turn as I recalled a recent, somber piece of news: Goce Kolarovski had passed away. Though our encounter had been brief, he was my first true composition mentor. Sometimes, a few words are enough to stay with you for a lifetime. Goce was such a person in my journey, leaving behind insights and encouragement that continue to resonate as he continues to live in my memory.
I snap back to the present when the plane began to taxi to the runway, pausing in that familiar stillness before the engines fired to life—quiet before the storm, broken only by a garbled voice over the intercom. Finally, we surged forward, the roar of the engines making every part shake and rattle. My eyes caught a glimpse of the mountains beyond my window, and in that instant, a faint voice within me whispered something I dared not expect: I would return to Cyprus one day.
London has a distinct smell. The moment you step off the plane, it greets you—a mix of machine oil, exhaust, and crisp, dry air. To my younger self, it smelled like civilization, and I liked it. On the other hand, Cyprus smelled almost painfully clean, too calm—countryside air is meant for retirees, I thought, not for this young adventurer. Then there were the quirks of London life: urinals often without dividers if there were urinals at all. The unmistakable stench of beer, oozing out of dim pubs, went by at regular intervals as I strolled the streets. And queues—everywhere queues. Even the coffee felt foreign: a thin layer of actual coffee hidden beneath a gallon of milk, flavored with syrups and crowned with a sprinkling of yet more sugary powders. Everything was both entirely different yet oddly familiar, as though I’d stepped into a distorted version of a place I’d only dreamed about. It was thrilling and disorienting, all at once.
After a week of exploring London, I made my way to the Royal Holloway campus and settled into my modest dorm room. Once registration and settling in were done, I was itching to start composing again. To my surprise, I discovered that my actual lessons would be condensed into a single weekday. It was an intense, almost marathon-like setup, with hours spent under the guidance of Philip Cashian, Tansy Davies, and Brian Lock—three hours with each, if memory serves, making for a day that tested the limits of anyone’s endurance.
While the rest of the week was free from formal classes, our assignments left little room for anything else. I was composing at a pace I’d never thought possible. There’s a reason people say, “Enjoy your student life while it lasts”—rarely do you get the freedom to let your passion consume your time so completely, both mentally and physically.
Throughout this marathon of a schedule, I managed to complete several pieces: a work for Trumpet and Piano, a multi-movement piece for solo Clarinet, another multi-movement piece for a String Trio (Viola, Cello, and Double Bass), an Octet inspired by Stravinsky, and a duet for two violins. Two of these pieces even made it to performance within the department—a rewarding moment that made all the rigorous hours feel worthwhile.
After a year of rigorous study at Royal Holloway, I found myself back in Cyprus for a brief summer “holiday”—though there wasn’t much holiday in it. I had an intimidating deadline to complete at least 25 minutes of music as my final project for my master’s degree. There were no rules about structuring it; I could submit a single cohesive work or split the minutes across several pieces as long as at least one was “substantial.” But what did “substantial” mean? What was the point of reference of being “substantial”? Did it imply a grand orchestral composition, or was it simply a matter of length?
Time was in short supply—just eight weeks to finish a project of this scale. I barely had a moment to dwell on each choice, quickly realizing that under such tight deadlines, hesitation was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Blank staff paper stared back at me, a silent menace; it was as daunting as a blank canvas to a painter. But as soon as the first notes took shape on the page, my possibilities shrank just enough to form a pathway. Each mark, each line penned, edged me toward clarity and direction.
But with every note, the stakes felt higher. Here lies the paradox of deadlines; they free you from endless possibilities yet bind you to what you’ve committed. There’s little room to sleep on ideas or ponder them for long. Once a section is down, there’s hardly a thought of going back, let alone discarding it altogether. The page becomes set in stone, both a safety net and a daunting finality. Because by the time you’ve re-evaluated your choices, it’s already time to turn to the next page, the next idea.
My plan was ambitious: a twenty-minute String Quartet and a five-minute orchestral piece. During the summer of 2003, while studying with Goce, our lessons extended beyond the classroom into long walks through the city. These weren’t ordinary strolls; they were rich with Goce’s insights, as he unraveled the lives of composers, their struggles and triumphs, the kinds of stories you don’t encounter in traditional Music History classes. He gave context to why certain pieces exist and the worlds in which they were conceived.
He was surprised to learn I wasn’t familiar with Shostakovich’s string quartets. I remember the embarrassment, quickly followed by a desire to study more scores and learn as much as I could. Later, our group wandered into a CD shop, and on the way out, Goce handed me a small bag. Inside was a boxed set of Shostakovich’s complete String Quartets. And now, after several years of experience in composition, I thought it was a meaningful moment to tackle my first String Quartet. A homage, of sorts, to the wisdom and generosity of Goce.
I completed the first draft over three intense weeks in Cyprus. When I returned to my dorm, I had just one week to orchestrate and notate the entire eighteen-minute piece—every moment counted, as the orchestral composition still awaited me, which would also be a first for me! In the whirlwind of creating these two challenging works, I often found myself questioning how I’d landed in such a mess.
My mother tried to understand my frustration during one memorable phone call. I explained the rush, the deadlines, the mounting pressure, to which she replied, “I don’t get it—aren’t you the one composing it? So how come you don’t get to decide when it’s finished?” Seemingly naive, but ultimately a very relevant question even today, after all the experience I gained.
In one intense week, I managed to complete the Quartet and send it to my supervisor for a quick review. With his positive reply, I turned to the next monumental task: the orchestral piece. But where to begin? I was exhausted, mentally burnt out from the Quartet, and completely uninspired. With only three weeks until the deadline, there was no time for contemplation or a break—I had to dive in, ready or not.
Lacking any real experience with orchestral writing, I decided to start small, arranging the piece for two pianos. I pulled out my MIDI keyboard and began playing chords and melodies at random, jotting down fragments as they emerged. Within about a week, I had a basic framework: sections, transitions, and even some orchestration ideas sketched out in rough text. Then I took a trip into London to buy the full score of The Rite of Spring, hoping Stravinsky’s orchestrations might inspire me or at least give me a roadmap.
Back in my dorm, I opened my notation software and started assembling a list of instruments, including a surprisingly varied set of percussion. But I quickly hit a major setback—my laptop, though high-spec for its time, couldn’t handle playback of a full orchestra. The software froze and so frequently that it became clear this setup wouldn’t work.
With no time to lose, I decided to go old-school. I bought a large orchestral score sheet and began the painstaking task of notating each part by hand. It was, without a doubt, the hardest task I’d ever undertaken. But as I continued, I found myself pulling deeper into the music, and gradually, it became easier. Working on paper, away from the synthetic sounds of a computer, I felt my imagination come alive. Somehow, I could hear the music in my mind—or at least, I believed I could—and that belief was all I needed to keep going.
During my time in the dorm, I became an active member of the forum Young Composers. It was a vibrant space where we could post our pieces, exchange feedback, and connect over shared ambitions. There were even sections for more experienced members to mentor beginners, something I took part in briefly. As the year went on and my workload piled up, I found myself more engaged in the forum, seeking both community and a form of social connection with like-minded people.
In those final, frenzied weeks of writing, I stumbled across an advertisement on the forum for a composition competition organized by the now-defunct company NOTION. The prize? An orchestral recording of the winning piece by the London Symphony Orchestra at Abbey Road Studios, along with a monetary award, free flight, and accommodations in London. I was, quite literally, in the right place, at the right time; I happened to have a completed orchestral piece sitting on my desk, so I thought, why not?
To be continued…
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