What else are we missing?

Okay I know you are a little surprised to see a new post so soon after my last one. In fact the truth be told, I'm a little surprised myself. I mean, I did say that my blog posts would be few and far between. And that wasn't so long back, was it? But then again, I said a lot of other things that I had a hard time to adhere to. Therefore, you cannot hold me to that.

Anyway the reason for this rather hurried post was this article that I read in the Washington Post in the morning (Hat tip: Mohit). The first time I read it, I went through the whole thing at an incredible speed, devouring every word in absolute disbelief. It seemed preposterous that something like this could happen. In the heart of D.C. During rush hour with hundreds of thousands of morning commuters filing past him. I was shocked to say the least.

To quote bits from the article that caught my attention:

It was not until six minutes into the performance that someone actually stood against a wall, and listened. Things never got much better. In the three-quarters of an hour that Joshua Bell played, seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute. Twenty-seven gave money, most of them on the run -- for a total of $32 and change. That leaves the 1,070 people who hurried by, oblivious, many only three feet away, few even turning to look.

"At a music hall, I'll get upset if someone coughs or if someone's cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I started to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change."

This is from a man whose talents can command $1,000 a minute.

"The awkward times," he calls them. It's what happens right after each piece ends: nothing. The music stops. The same people who hadn't noticed him playing don't notice that he has finished. No applause, no acknowledgment. So Bell just saws out a small, nervous chord -- the embarrassed musician's equivalent of, "Er, okay, moving right along . . ." -- and begins the next piece.

And the interesting bit:

There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.

And the reason?

People just said they were busy, had other things on their mind. Some who were on cellphones spoke louder as they passed Bell, to compete with that infernal racket.

"Couple of years ago, a homeless guy died right there. He just lay down there and died. The police came, an ambulance came, and no one even stopped to see or slowed down to look.
People walk up the escalator, they look straight ahead. Mind your own business, eyes forward. Everyone is stressed. Do you know what I mean?"


The conclusion:

We're busy. Americans have been busy, as a people, since at least 1831, when a young French sociologist named Alexis de Tocqueville visited the States and found himself impressed, bemused and slightly dismayed at the degree to which people were driven, to the exclusion of everything else, by hard work and the accumulation of wealth.

Poignance:

If we can't take the time out of our lives to stay a moment and listen to one of the best musicians on Earth play some of the best music ever written; if the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and blind to something like that -- then what else are we missing?

I have since gone back and re-read the article atleast five times. Poring over each word. Checking out the video clips. Watching the way people were reacting. And asking myself the million dollar question. What if I had been there? I have passed the station a hundred times at least when I used to commute to work by the Metro. Would I have stopped in the middle of my mad morning rush when I heard a familiar tune? Would I have recognized my all time favorite artist even if it seemed like the most impossible thing in the world? Would I stand there in awe and disbelief and be able to talk to Joshua Bell? Up close and personal. Seems too good to be true. But it actually happened. And as I write this I am convinced that I would know him. Anywhere. Even in the middle of L' Enfant Plaza Metro station on a weekday morning.

But then again. We will never know, shall we?