Last week I wrote about people who played second fiddle and changed the world, but alongside that had written another about many who pretend to play second fiddle and find it convenient to remain doing so, because they are actually playing first fiddle.
Initially I wasn’t sure there was anybody who would do something like that but to clear my doubts, I decided to interview India’s biggest Second Fiddle. No secretary arranged it, my imagination did—and also you don’t need one when the boss doesn’t even know he’s running the show!
“Sir,” I asked, notebook ready, “how do you keep playing second fiddle?”
He smiled. “By making the first fiddle think I’m playing second fiddle. He believes he’s conducting, while I tune the strings, write the notes, and decide the audience.”
“Don’t you ever feel tempted to take center stage?”
“Why would I? The spotlight blinds you, microphones catch every wrong note, cameras follow your frown. I stay behind. While the maestro hugs the wrong people abroad, I fiddle with the home keys—lock away freedoms, keep Manipur burning, flick the internet on and off—and no one blames me! Isn’t that bliss?”
I almost dropped my pen. “So, you enjoy being second fiddle?”
“Enjoy? It’s paradise! When people cheer, I bow with him. When they boo, I vanish. Who wouldn’t want this?”
I thought back to the usher in 1930 who found seats for two boys at a revival meeting in Charlotte. One was Billy Graham. That usher, a true second fiddle, never got his name in lights, but without him, Graham might have walked away. That was second fiddling at its noblest.
But here was another kind—one who had turned the art into manipulation. Not harmony but dissonance. Not support but sabotage. And I wondered—how many second fiddles today are secretly conducting their own crooked symphonies while the first fiddle struts under borrowed spotlight?
“Sir,” I asked finally, “doesn’t your conscience ever prick you?”
He stroked an imaginary viola. “Conscience? That’s for first fiddles! They must look noble. My job is to keep the background score going—even if out of key.”
I walked away heavy-hearted. Once, playing second fiddle meant sacrifice and humility. Today it means silent plotting while the house burns.
Still, second fiddles shape history. Some lift the music. Others twist it. The real question is—if you’re a second fiddle at home, at work, or in politics—are you creating harmony, or are you fiddling while Rome—or Manipur—burns?
Because the true second fiddle knows this secret: the sweetest music isn’t in who gets the applause, but in whether the orchestra plays on. Ours, sadly, plays only for himself—while everyone thinks the wrong notes belong to the first fiddle and his hugs…!