Tiny New York Story: MD Hafizur Rahman
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
