The Invisible Musician

I never could get what people see in the “upcoming star” of classical music. How times have changed. I remember playing at the Dover Lane music festival. Night after night. Year after year. Now that was magic.

But my opinion is hardly relevant.

Today, we are at the Town hall. It’s wonderful. It’s all lit up and when I look up from my strumming, I see the steps are almost full. Yes, even the buses twisting around Horniman Circle seem to be respecting the dulcet tones of the pretender.

He is not bad. Just that he needs a little more discipline. Since I first strummed behind him, he has put on a few kilos. His voice seems to be struggling at times to get past the last Biryani he had from Ameenas. And he is making up for it by blaming the sound guys.

But then, who am I to blow against the wind. He is, after all: The next voice.

When you are the second string player at these socially conscious gatherings, it's amusing to watch the corporate types lighting the diya. I wonder if they can identify a raga from a regatta. Hey, I am not complaining though, it pays for my rum and pomfret slice at Apoorva’s (the curry is to die for, try it with the neer dosa).

Just that, the Hansadhwani at times makes me want to strangle the black swan.But then, what choice do I have?

Being invisible is one.