Blues In A Major Key
Sometimes, the curve of a rich man’s mouth tells you everything there is to know about him.
As our collective shame unfolded last week, it did so globally. One of my first sources was writer Sonia Faleiro's blog, in Mumbai, India.
Last year, my friend Gordon and I wrote a short paper on how college faculty could apply principles of jazz improvisation in the classroom. We took the paper to a conference in New Orleans. It was my first trip there. I could not get over how similar New Orleans was to Calcutta — the gleeful heat, the musical ether, the vast waterfront, but most of all the masala-gumbo of humanity. The beignets at Cafe Du Monde reminded me of the rosogollas at KC Das on the Esplanade. Satchmo and Tagore seemed like brother-poets.
Last week, I happened to flash back to a deluged Calcutta afternoon of my childhood when my father abandoned his prized possession — his new car, submerged in opaque brown water — and swam home through the monsoon streets with me strapped to his back like a knapsack. The waters receded overnight and the city returned to its casual and customary disorder in about a week. How lucky we were.