I rode to work in a vintage Indian chariot today.
Or at least, that’s how royal I felt in the cab.
The old cabbie was no extraordinary driver, the cab wasn’t a luxurious sedan, nor was the weather any better than yesterday.
It was the music that changed everything. And told me a lot about the old man.
While most cabs play the annoying radio stations, which is more jibber-jabber than music; and I usually can’t wait to ask the driver to turn it down a little. But today was just perfect. What played was instrumental Indian classical music – and my roots came running back to me.
It was the mesmerizing veena – the most divine string instrument I have known – being played in perfect accompaniment with the most calling and nostalgic percussion I’ve ever heard – the mridangam.
And the combination was divine. Song after song played, some familiar, some beautifully mysterious. And my mind delighted in awe – for a moment in the web of the rhythm, and the next moment – in love with the strings.
I saw myself – I visualized – my glory days as a kid, as a singer and a dancer, as a lover of classical music and dance.
I was reminded that it still have dance in my feet, that marvel for rhythm, and the ability to create emotions through music.
And when I got a phone call while I was in the cab, I didn’t ask him to turn it down. I let go off the phone and continued to visualize.