Da-da-da-dum-dum-dum.
I hear the beat before I see its creator.
Dum-da-dum-da-dum.
It sounds like bongos, I think. Then I shake my head. What do I know about drums?
Dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da.
The drummer is on the sidewalk parallel to ours. I can't see him for the continuous stream of vehicles and the cars parked next to his sidewalk.
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
The sound is loud. There are people clapping I think. And others watching. It is a catchy beat.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum.
Again I wonder, what kind of drums are those?
Da-da-da-da-da-dum-da-da-dum-da-da.
I catch a glimpse of a man in white, he's smiling and dancing.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da-dum-dum.
Right next to him is another man. He's sitting. He is the drummer, the player. He is grinning just as widely. I finally see his instrument.
Dum-da-da-da-dum-da-da-da.
Wow, I think. I hide a smile. My mom asks me why. I point to his instrument.
Da-da-dum-dum-da-da-dum-dum.
They are buckets.
Da-da-da-dum-dum-dum.
***
'....$20' The man is saying. I try not to look back a third time. $20? Isn't that a lot? Then again, I don't know the distance, but still ...
The vehicle is a fancy version of a cycle rickshaw. There are two wheels at the the back, supporting the seat, and one wheel in the front. There are pedals and a handle. I wonder if this is a common sight. I've definitely never seen anything like it before, not here, at least.
There are rickety versions of the same thing back in India. There the cyclists are skinny and strong, with wrinkly brown skin and shabby white clothes and maybe handkerchiefs tied around their heads to soak the sweat. They haggle with you for the price, trying to get five rupees more. They pound on the pedals throughout the day, sweating in the sun, and despite all their efforts get a meager income.
My mom and I are awed at their strength to do this all day, every day. My mom complies with an extra 10 rupees.
'Dhanyavaad bhaiyya' (Thank you brother)
And here, the cyclists are dressed in good clothes and are talking about their associates.
$20.
Wow.
***
The sunlight streams in through a large window.
We are sitting at a table right beside the door and right in front of the window. We are laughing. My mom's friend is funny.
He tells us about the different monuments in the city and the historical significance of every building, statue, and bridge.
There have been great improvements. A rundown place has flourished in the last fifteen years to become a beautiful area. There have also been sad stories. A woman who was wrongfully persecuted, and then executed.
There's a story behind everything, I realize. Some meaning, some reason, some purpose. It's nice to know.
Uncle leans forward to tell us something else. The reason he chose this pizza place.
'The president has come here before,' he says.
We start joking that we could be sitting at the same place as the president sat or are having the same meal that he did. Maybe it's the same menu, or the drink.
If nothing, it still is the same restaurant.
I hear the beat before I see its creator.
Dum-da-dum-da-dum.
It sounds like bongos, I think. Then I shake my head. What do I know about drums?
Dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da.
The drummer is on the sidewalk parallel to ours. I can't see him for the continuous stream of vehicles and the cars parked next to his sidewalk.
Da-da-da-da-da-da-da.
The sound is loud. There are people clapping I think. And others watching. It is a catchy beat.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum.
Again I wonder, what kind of drums are those?
Da-da-da-da-da-dum-da-da-dum-da-da.
I catch a glimpse of a man in white, he's smiling and dancing.
Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum-da-dum-dum.
Right next to him is another man. He's sitting. He is the drummer, the player. He is grinning just as widely. I finally see his instrument.
Dum-da-da-da-dum-da-da-da.
Wow, I think. I hide a smile. My mom asks me why. I point to his instrument.
Da-da-dum-dum-da-da-dum-dum.
They are buckets.
Da-da-da-dum-dum-dum.
***
'....$20' The man is saying. I try not to look back a third time. $20? Isn't that a lot? Then again, I don't know the distance, but still ...
The vehicle is a fancy version of a cycle rickshaw. There are two wheels at the the back, supporting the seat, and one wheel in the front. There are pedals and a handle. I wonder if this is a common sight. I've definitely never seen anything like it before, not here, at least.
There are rickety versions of the same thing back in India. There the cyclists are skinny and strong, with wrinkly brown skin and shabby white clothes and maybe handkerchiefs tied around their heads to soak the sweat. They haggle with you for the price, trying to get five rupees more. They pound on the pedals throughout the day, sweating in the sun, and despite all their efforts get a meager income.
My mom and I are awed at their strength to do this all day, every day. My mom complies with an extra 10 rupees.
'Dhanyavaad bhaiyya' (Thank you brother)
And here, the cyclists are dressed in good clothes and are talking about their associates.
$20.
Wow.
***
The sunlight streams in through a large window.
We are sitting at a table right beside the door and right in front of the window. We are laughing. My mom's friend is funny.
He tells us about the different monuments in the city and the historical significance of every building, statue, and bridge.
There have been great improvements. A rundown place has flourished in the last fifteen years to become a beautiful area. There have also been sad stories. A woman who was wrongfully persecuted, and then executed.
There's a story behind everything, I realize. Some meaning, some reason, some purpose. It's nice to know.
Uncle leans forward to tell us something else. The reason he chose this pizza place.
'The president has come here before,' he says.
We start joking that we could be sitting at the same place as the president sat or are having the same meal that he did. Maybe it's the same menu, or the drink.
If nothing, it still is the same restaurant.
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