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Showing posts from April, 2012

Tiny New York Story: MD Hafizur Rahman

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On my way to the Upper West Side from Chelsea, hop in a taxi, and the good looking, smiling Bangladeshi cab driver starts asking me questions, particularly about my mother. So I oblige him: Yes she is still alive. She lives in South Jersey. Yes she lives alone, but I visit her often. Yes she is loved by her neighbors. Somewhere around midtown in the 40s or 50s he tells me how he is a singer. The cab is nothing, just a thing to do. He is a singer and has recorded. His most popular songs are songs about mother. Aha! Now I know why all the questions. He tells me that he can make people cry with his songs about his mother. Then he asks if he can sing me one. I am a captive audience—am I going to tell this happy man no? So he sings, gesturing hands that should rightfully be on the steering wheel, but okay, we're in snail's pace afternoon midtown traffic. He translates his song, which likely was in Bengali, but I'm not sure. After that he sings a second song. I'm enjoying t...

Tiny New York Story:Einstein in the cab

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A cab driver who is the spitting image of Albert Einstein, wild hair and all. He doesn't say a word when I get in, just speeds me along to my destination all to the soundtrack of some neo-new-wave-hypno-tune playi ng in a loop on his radio. At one point, he picked his nose in contemplation, which only lent a sort of authenticity to him. The spell was broken when he drove past my stop, and said "Awww shit! I got so caught up in the music I missed your stop!" in the deepest New York accent you ever want to hear. (Just got the back of his head and a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror because unlike my more brave friends, I didn't want to ask him to pose for me. I figured he probably gets the Al Einstein conversation all of the time.)