The dreads, the rasta cap, the banjo, said it all. He was there to give advice, free to all, free of charge. I was walking in Central park when I came across Jamal, somehow I still wonder if that was his real name. He had a banjo in one hand, a drum cocked between his knees and an accordion strapped to his side. A smile stretching from ear to ear, as he drummed away to his own humming music, acting completely oblivious to the coins and bills dropping on the shirt spread out in front of him.

There are very few scenarios when you talk to people like that. Most of the time, the only thing you say to people like that are ‘Excuse me’, or ‘sorry, no change’. Or if you are a student from a film school doing your year end project, you would warily ask, ‘How much for 20 minutes?’ I had absolutely nothing to do. Walking along Central park, clicking away at birds and ducks and manhattan skyline, he was just another click away.
Three guys dropped in some change passing by, I fished around in my purse for some loose cash when he looked over at me and smiled,

“How are you today? ”
“Great, how are you?”
“ Wonderful now, that someone took my picture.”
I was clicking away with one hand while fumbling for change with the other. The collateral damage of multitasking all the time. I finally found some cash.

“Keep the money and sit down here for a while, you look lovely, haven’t had a pretty woman to talk to for a while.”
I could have laughed and walked away, but something made me stop. Whats the harm in sitting down for a while, where do I have to go anyway? I sat down on the bench next to him and put away my camera. We introduced ourselves.

“You don’t look to be local, on vacation here?”
“Kind of.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“IT clerk, web design.”
“I design music.”
“ I can see that.”
“ So where you coming from?”
“Virginia.”
“ Ah! the Virginia that is for lovers.”
“ Don’t know, haven’t had much luck in that area.”

Jamal squinted at me, eyes moving from my wedding ring to my face, “You sure about that. You don’t look lonely to me?”
I looked about embarrassed, “ I am married actually, I didn’t know what to say.” This would be the perfect time to smile, hand the cash, say the byes and walk away, But he didn’t seem like a con or a future rapist so I stay put.
“You can talk to me if you like, you know, I don’t kill for just talking.” Talking to a street musician; that wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve done. But respectable women like me don’t do that, do they? Jamal kept looking at me, a kind smile at his lips.
“ I have all the time in the world, and I don’t charge for talking.”

What the heck! people have done worse. A friend of mine attended a religious conference to cure depression, hosted by a guru who turned out to be a fraud. It cost $400. Another needs five shots of Vodka to cry herself to sleep. That was after she lived two years voluntarily separated from her husband of ten years, and gotten back together. I am a pillar of sanity by those standards. So we chat. He had been a courier for a shipping company, developed photos at a grocery chain, then had a bad relationship, split and happily became a jack of all trades. Now he plays music in Central park, thats his living. For a guy on the slippery slope of poverty, he was pretty well versed in music. Van Halen is a lot of anger, Blondie is a feminist, U2 have no purpose other than collecting cash. The Beatles are a sad failure of idealism. So whats my story?

So whats my story, really? I haven’t been able to tell my family yet out of shame but I had no hesitation in telling him the reason of my current vacation. Without a shred of compunction, I found myself telling a guy I barely know, how my marriage is falling apart, my career is stalled in the peak of life and how I had left home and child to figure out my thoughts and life in NYC. How I can’t stop crying for months now. What did I expect a week in the city to provide me? Was I looking for rejuvenation in my lonely time alone or trying to find an escape route from a life and marriage that had failed to grow? I am lost.
Jamal listened attentively, music forgotten on the banjo, drum and accordion. How I had booked a hotel in late night, got a last minute ticket on the Acela the next morning and arrived with a hastily packed bag of nothing in New york City. I am not only lost but clueless in my life. My son begged me not to leave, and I am so selfish.
“ No one can tell you what to feel, alright. No one can live your life for you or bear your burden, so stop hurting your soul by calling yourself ‘selfish’. Find one person who is not selfish and then think twice,” Jamal was un reproachful. “You really think anybody can tell you how to live your life? ” Was my husband bad, hurtful? No. Did he put me down? No. Did he stop me from leaving? No. Would I mind taking advice from a guy on the streets? Do I have a choice?
“ Look, I have done crazy things in my life too, ok, broken a lot of promises. I am no saint. But I can tell you that what you have is more than most people dream of. We live in a society because living alone sucks, sucks big time, and running away from responsibility will not solve anything. You did good in coming away but no one can tell you what to do next. You can stay here or go back but if you let your mind be a prisoner of self hate and sadness, no place can cure you. Only you can cure yourself. I am still trying.”

He must have said other things too but I don’t remember them now. What I remember is finally finding a sliver of light in my tunnel of dark.

When people in olden times used to get tired of their daily grind, they used to take pilgrimages. They left their city scape of filth and squalor and headed to secluded forests and hills to find peace. Now we are so secluded from each other, even people we live with, that we need an urban pilgrimage to reconnect to life and reality. When constant texting, tweeting and face timing has killed off our real connection to each other, we need a dose of reality from the common man to tune us back to life. Kings and emperors needed a hermit of their own; to ground them to reality, to give them a perception of truth. For the regular Jane, John and Sarah, the struggling common man is our hermit, or in my case, a savior.

I have often wondered what I would say to a shrink if I had lost my marbles long enough to find one. Life threw a curve ball at me and found me a hermit. And he didn’t even cost a cent. And I found Jamal by a footpath in Central park.
So, am I grounded to reality now? Have I cured myself? I am still trying – but at least I am doing that.