Record player

I was 17 when I listened to my first record. It was in park Street Calcutta at the house of Sanjit Basu. Debating rival from school, admired friend over letters. In those days it was possible to be Pen pals!! It was our face book or email!! Babu and I would write 4 page letters extolling on the virtues of Debating, the walls of school, the teachers, the tutes, the morals.

But when i heard Pink Floyd or backward child or Harry Belafontaine come to life on that Machine it was a joyous experience. The familiar scratch of a protesting needle. The steady turn of the LP, the warm voices almost a touch away!!

I could not afford a record player then, we had an old broken down 2 in one. With no top, it had got burnt I remember or broken!! I then heard a record player at my ex father in laws house. He played Zorba the Greek!! Again their was a connect I cannot put my finger on!!
or can I!!

I hate perfection, I love the little quirks, I enjoy the possibility of the needle getting stuck. I look out for the scratches they make life more real I guess!!
Day before I purchased a Project studio debut 3 Turntable. It is solid and nice. The cartridge I was told is the key, the needle. I had but one record at home, an old one I bought from France. That too in a jumble sale. And the kind store owner gave me a Eva Cassidy record.

I got home, my excitement is indescribable now. But my heart was racing. I connected it, sat on the terrace and listened. The warmth, the scratch, the flawed reality of a record. Black and etched with lines. If I place my palm on the needle will it read it too. Will it run over my scratches and whisper them aloud?? Or will it cover my hand with a black lacquer, a fine shiny surface!!

Fields of Gold and Somewhere over the rainbow, Eva Cassidy and Good wine for company. ..a perfect evening, where I wish the record of life had remained stuck!!