In a Station on the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

-Ezra Pound

[Disclaimer: Ezra Pound's famous poem has nothing to do with this post except that both have an association with the underground railway, though in different cities. My choice of epigraph, honestly, is inspired by Pound's title rather than his lines.]

Hexagenarian, chubby-cheeked and grinning widely, he sat on a small stool, enthralling all commuters present with the Latino melodies that he played effortlessly on his piano accordion. From Besame Mucho to El Condor Pasa to La Cucaracha, he played them all with equal panache, and once obliged New Yorkers with the theme from The Godfather. In my eight months in this Mammon's den, of all the 'musicians' I have given money to, perhaps only one other man who played Latino melodies on a Spanish guitar on 116th St could vye with this man for felicity. Both, incidentally acknowledged not just the money passers-by would give them, but also their appreciative glances and nods. I was dismayed to see a "For Sale" tag on the accordion. As I embarked on the train, I faintly hoped the accordion wouldn't find buyers too soon, so that I could hear more of him. And lo! Two days later, I chanced upon him at another station, but as luck would have it, I had no money on me this time. It has been two months since then, and I have not seen him again. I only hope the accordion has gone to good hands, and my nameless artist does have another to play on, though not for the mercy of commuters.