My brother told me an anecdote.
As anecdotes go, it was not much.
Apparently, a few of his friends
went to a wedding of a college friend.
It was a small village, with no electricity
or even good transportation.
For the wedding, they booked a gramophone,
with many records, all LPs no doubt.
But, on that day, because of a snafu,
they only got one record.
From the morning to evening,
they only heard that record.
“unter der treppen, auf den longen
floren” *, they heard it everywhere.
They heard it from the walls,
they heard it over the chatter.
Soon, the walls start singing the same
song; it clung to their skin like smoke.
They hated the very sound of the song
They could not bear to think of the words
By the evening, they can only look forward
to listening to the song again, and again.
#engayO kETTa kural# like, they can only
fall into the magic of the familiar.
To this day they could not recall the song
without nostalgia, with out the misty eyes.
Those were the good days, good times,
good songs, good music and good life
They said it often and they still say it.
Nov 8, 2005
[Time took: 110 secs :-)]
*: From a German poem called “Zicate” or cicada. Does any body know the full poem? I lost track of it.