I left the bar on tuesday night with a nice buzz on. A bunch of stragglers from the show were hanging around deciding where to go afterwards. Exausted, I stepped towards the cab I had called to take me home. The cabbie popped the trunk for me to put my banjo in without me asking. That's always a good sign.
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I slipped into the back of the green car and announced my destination. Without a word and only a nod to show he'd heard me, we were off. I sank into the leather seat and let the entire day wash out of me.
The sound of a tape being inserted into a car-stereo. I was too tired to wonder what this dark-skinned indian man wanted to share with me. I'd taught 3 hours of lessons and played about 4 hours of music on top of that. I had reached my saturation level. Still, it was easier for me to listen than it was to think.
This recording had been transferred to casette from a record. The crackling was so apparant that I could almost see the warped record wobbling on an old mono-turntable. A sitar floated out of the speakers behind my head. I closed my eyes and continued my thoughtless state.
He started singing. My god did he start singing. The voice on the tape paled in comparison to the one sitting right in front of me. It was as if the recording was making a poor attempt at singing along with the driver. The inflection in his voice was so effortless...and beautifully executed. The winding sounds of Indian music had never really touched me before and this man was blanketing me with it. As if I'd never heard anything like it before. It had been a long day that had run into a long night. Still, my exaustion couldn't completely account for the tears I was swallowing. Needless to say, I wasn't sad.