a few feet above my head a metal fan quickly and consistently chops through the air with a whir whir whir whir whir. it is mesmerizing. it serves as a sort of portal to the many other fans i have sat under and stared at in various low budget hotels around the lesser-traveled world. this particular fan chops through the thick air of my Kathmandu hotel room number 404 (of which a famous song is being written currently - by myself and my companion from Mumbai). this room is a mess but the view is fantastic.
last evening myself and the famous writer of the soon to be finished hit single Room 404 perched ourselves on the steps leading to the narrow streets upon which our hotel resides. evening time brings tea and conversation between friends about the day. old men sit in rows of three or four intermingled between potted plants and store displays. they don't smoke as much as the people of many places i have visited. down the street a bit, three women wash clothes in large plastic buckets which drain into an even bigger plaza which contains a communal bath, outside under the warm sun and many other wanderers make their ways by.
i don't wear shirts if i absolutely don't have to, nor shoes. i have lots of tattoos so people stare sometimes but it is part of the deal i made by painting my body. yesterday one man came to me from his row of four old men and asked to take a photo with his mobile phone. he showed me the photo and i smiled politely. it was cool; some hippy looking guy with a thick necklace and an old acoustic guitar which is missing the high-E string. Harsh, my friend from Mumbai, insists on a beer between us and he begins to take the lead. he had lived in the USA for seven years and he can sing blues like a professional. his voice is deep like Johnny Cash and he is equally as charismatic. so with 30 eyes or so upon us we begin to improv and actually the music was pretty wild. later a younger man produces a small drum and our ensemble is nearly complete.
nearly complete indeed.. the star of the show emerges from the crowd in the form of a ten year old girl spinning a hula hoop. i didn't notice her at first, i was paying more attention to the music and to the increasing pain in my right index finger - a punishment given to those who swear by gypsy music and hard upstrokes, a job not meant for a steel string guitar with no pick. when i finally did notice her i didn't only notice that she was as beautiful as a star beam but she had great rhythm. she was actually moving to our music and i decided to take this to a different level. Harsh stopped singing and took over the small drum which he was quite good at. our music became something like a mix of belly dancing music and the sounds of an old train chika-tikka chika-tikka chika-tikka. she was good, maybe a little too good. in fun, i tried to shake her off balance by playing faster and faster but she would not budge. i played slower and slower in efforts to knock the hula hoop from her small waist but again she was just too good. the audience noticed this and it made me smile so big. in a two second break on my part i raised my hands and demanded she did the same. this girl was really something and everybody in the crowd, old or young, seemed to share in her smiles.
happiness, true happiness is not something which can be purchased but it is something we must both find within ourselves and create.
my fan whips through the air like the propellers of an airship. it gets me high. it moves so fast that i cannot trace a single wobbly blade from its endless circular path. 'on the fourth floor, room number 404, that's where you'll be finding me tonight'. lounge music has never sounded so sweeter than when its mixed with the sounds of people dancing in the street.
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