Being a fiddler’s friend
He mocks, he slams, he sings, he fingers and he strings. My friend,
Oh fiddler! The little notes he knows, dives me into this wild imagination of a
Woodstock artist, or perhaps…
He drills into the melody of Narayan Gopal and does with class and
with devotion enough to make it comparable, at least, for a friend.
You get to carry his
love of life once a while. But it is too heavy an effort for you! And yet you
do! For the sake of doing it. But when he gets one with his love, it seems,
they were never two.
He speaks less. But you
would love his voice, the voice of his entwined with his own. The audible bliss
or so you would feel.
You get to see his beard getting longer every next time you see
him. And with his beard you see this immense growth in character and
knowledgeability. So much as to astonish you sometimes.
You would envy him, for
I know I do! Not jealous! But envy yes! It forces you to mock yourself
sometimes. You cannot aspire being so. And to live your fantasy, you sing
along. In a tempo so cautious as not to alter his decibels and to attract other
meditators towards this awry mix of two definition of voices. You surely would
not want that. You look at him play, he looks at nobody. With tightly shut eyes
he gardens himself, he masks himself and lives. You stare and see him live.
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