Tea in the Sahara

Never thought it'd happen but i watched Sting in concert. It seems the personal dream fairy waved her fickle wand in my direction. A culmination of long hours spent listening, imbibing, ingesting the Police, feeling the melodies, memorising every note, devouring the genius.

The evening was lovely and the duress of waiting two hours to get close to the stage melted away as Sting's fretfreak walked on stage. followed by the rest of the band, and finally the master himelf, impeccable in his pin stripe trousers. a great grey bee. The spotlight was on, but the aura was far more intesne than white light. Calm, collected, aware, together backed by exemplary musicians. Simpatico. Send your love, appetizer, Fragile, Main course... delectable. Frenzied crowds, including a tiny maldivian couple who knew all the words and a tall Brit who shared my joke about a giant Back stage chillum. And then, silence. The sound of Nylon strings, plucking magic and sending shivers up my spine. I stared, mesmerized and dusty. Driven to tears even. Been years since an instrument made want to weep, from yesteryears upright bass to the moment's acoustic guitar and vocals. Synchronicity. Danced like a dervish, wailed like a siren and got bitten like a chicken leg.

Ixnay Blue, I'd never pay to see you play. Go to Delhi... or Ludhiana...