The Street Smart

        As I parked my bike near the Adidas showroom on JM Road, my attention went towards a specific sound. Shital said, "Can we check where that is coming from." The sound of the flute that we heard still stayed strong while the surroundings crowded with people. I followed the music, and I arrived near a shop which was a little far from where we parked. I saw a man sitting on the street and playing evergreen Bollywood songs on his flute. I sat there, and I kept listening to his music. It was mesmerizing and soothing to the soul. People were praising him by donating him the amount of money they wished. After a while, he stopped. I went to him. I sat beside him and asked him, "Uncle, What's your good name?" He replied, "My name is Gangadhar Jadhav, but people call me baba." He continued telling me about his time when he performed in an orchestra band and about his melodies, which were recorded and published. There was an article about him in the Times of India which he had placed in front of him. As he told stories about himself, I kept listening to him, his favorite singers, Lata di, Kishor da, Mohd. Rafi. Baba asked me which song I would like to listen to. I was so happy as I said, "Can you play Humein Tumse Pyar Kitna." He replied, nodding his head, "Yes, of course." He played the whole song, and the music brought a smile to my face. Shital and I donated some money to him, and we left.

       It was such a pleasant experience hearing his music, interacting with him, and playing the song I wished. A memory to be cherished and a person I would likely meet again soon. Very rarely, I find people with whom I can connect. I had a perfect evening to an already fantastic day. I am keeping this day in my memory forever to cherish for the rest of my life.





Comments

  1. There many such artist in our street who work for there happiness not for fame or not for money.
    It requires guts Salute to Baba!!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Happiness

The First Step

The Lost Childhood