I walked into the Yam store with a tune in my head, finally I had given my 21 year old classic to be restrung. I did not remember a thing except for “Every good boy does fine “, a mnemonic to remember EGBDF and FACE, the notes on the frets. But I was happy, as a child I was too flighty, today I felt surer of myself, more stable you know.
Jimmy was sitting facing the wall and playing somebody else’s guitar. He was the sales guy who was fixing it for me, by night he played at bars or taught a few unfortunate few. Oh no his music was not bad or so I figured from that little bit of interaction. It’s just that he loved to talk and fleece you off money. God , who would pay 100 bucks for re-stringing a guitar and have to listen about his five sisters, a Nepali distant cousin who looked like me, his stint with music and his stay at Bangalore. Well I do not look like a Nepali from any angle if you ask me, but well for a nice cup of tea, I would go to any extent of nodding my head.
And then he walked in, just so out of character from everyone in that store. Have you seen an Indian priest, well that is how he was dressed. A white kurta, dhoti, nammam on his forehead and the sacred thread. Well I imagined the thread. The only thing incongruous were the neat pair of Nike floaters he was wearing. He walked in and gave me this huge grin as if he knew for like a thousand years. I smiled back, anyone would have. Then I followed Jimmy man to the back of the store to pick up my guitar and all that while I could feel his shiny diamond eyes bear into my back. Jimmy got the guitar out and asked me to check. I turned to find a place to sit and try my hand at strumming and there he was smiling down on me. He turned to go and then turned back again at me and smiled. I smiled and he was gone.
I could not decipher the smile that day or the week after that.
Jimmy was sitting facing the wall and playing somebody else’s guitar. He was the sales guy who was fixing it for me, by night he played at bars or taught a few unfortunate few. Oh no his music was not bad or so I figured from that little bit of interaction. It’s just that he loved to talk and fleece you off money. God , who would pay 100 bucks for re-stringing a guitar and have to listen about his five sisters, a Nepali distant cousin who looked like me, his stint with music and his stay at Bangalore. Well I do not look like a Nepali from any angle if you ask me, but well for a nice cup of tea, I would go to any extent of nodding my head.
And then he walked in, just so out of character from everyone in that store. Have you seen an Indian priest, well that is how he was dressed. A white kurta, dhoti, nammam on his forehead and the sacred thread. Well I imagined the thread. The only thing incongruous were the neat pair of Nike floaters he was wearing. He walked in and gave me this huge grin as if he knew for like a thousand years. I smiled back, anyone would have. Then I followed Jimmy man to the back of the store to pick up my guitar and all that while I could feel his shiny diamond eyes bear into my back. Jimmy got the guitar out and asked me to check. I turned to find a place to sit and try my hand at strumming and there he was smiling down on me. He turned to go and then turned back again at me and smiled. I smiled and he was gone.
I could not decipher the smile that day or the week after that.
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