NDN-gram

My mother buys books by weight, has long,weird conversations with strangers, hands out Urdu poems,kisses when the spirit moves her and drinks condensed milk out of the can.I have always tried to resist any urge to be spontaneous - and in turn to resist my mother’s free wheeling nature.She has no fear. In hindsight,there was nothing to fear from her erratic ways,save for abject embarrassment every now and then.
As every Buzzfeed listicle I have ever read warned me about entering my late twenties, I have become her.And so in my first act as “Mom reincarnated” I booked us a trip to the Festival Of Sacred Music in Fes.The one thing that keeps me and my mother close is our taste in music and this was meant to be a treat. Spiritual music from all over the world, performed in the old museums and gardens of Morocco’s holiest city.We had some great experiences, like watching Pakistani percussion legend Zakir Hussein woo his tabla while blackbirds danced above.But there was one particular moment when we realized that we were not the target audience for this festival.When we peaked from the top balcony at this particular show for which we paid $50, we saw a sea of white, barefoot legs extended outwards towards a stage upon which a group of bohemians were reading out “The Conference Of The Birds” in French with pretentious sound effects, we knew. To be blunt, this festival was an orientalist’s wet dream.We spent our remaining days walking the medina, tasting everything and talking to everyone,especially a shopkeeper named Zouhair.The first time we met, he was so thrilled that he introduced us to all his friends and family and even offered some of his wares for free as we waited for the sales pitch that never came.One evening on my way back to our hotel, I passed Zouhair’s shop and was shocked when he grabbed my hand and pulled me in. I still didn’t know what to think when pulled me towards a wall of dresses,until he pushed them away to reveal a secret door behind which a private music festival was happening, better than anything I had seen at the official festival so far.The room was deceptively huge and so dark that all that was visible were the twelve robed men on stage,each with a different type of drum.They matched their percussion with deep, gravelly voices that were surprisingly mellifluous.I stood for a moment taking it all in before running to get my mom before it was over.I left the shop still feeling the thick pulse, shocked that I hadn’t noticed it before.