Its a lazy Saturday mid-afternoon. As I sit on my window sill, in part sunlight in an unusual Mumbai chilliness, strain of a melancholy flute playing nearby draws me towards itself. I look earnestly through the trees that line the road downstairs to the tiny patch of roach visible. The security guard at the gate is looking to one side of the road - maybe that is where the sound is coming from.
I listen on, concentrating, midst the sounds of fluttering pigeons, chirping birds, construction trucks & someone coaxing the auto ignition of their scooter to work. There he is - his frail person barely visible under the loads of flutes he is trying to sell. Suddenly, the sound is more melancholy - it tears through the static city hustle & transports my mind to a tiny playground decades ago, where we looked in awe at the flute wallahs churning melodies off wooden pipes - coaxing our grannies to buy us one, but never quite managing to play it. I wonder if the ones they sell are the ones they play!
The sound had since become distant. Now, as if awaken from a slumber, I hear it drawing closer. The frail form of the vendor has come to sight again as he retraces his path out the same road. India has so much talent, hidden in all its nooks & crevices - like the last crumbs of delicious plum cake one can scrape from the baking dish. I think of the street vendors selling hand-made stuffed toys. So much skill...
My cell phones vibrates on the study table nearby. I hurry to pick it up; and then, I stop thinking...
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