“Falafel,” Chitra said her eyes alight as we walked into the Turkish restaurant. We chose one of the eight tables after ordering at the counter making sure we had all the traditional accompaniments. The owner flirted a bit with us.
A Turkish song played in the background. I mentioned it.
“It is that instrument.” He pointed to something that looked liked a cut off guitar with three strings. “Come, I’ll play for you.” I followed him where he accompanied the CD-ROM until it was over, a concert for one.
Back at the table he deposited a plate of grape leaves a gift.
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