Near the foot of the escalator of a Bangkok train station, a man plays his flute. His music rises above the din of the morning traffic, a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of a city rushing off to work on its early morning commute.
He sits on a chair and plays music, his stage the sidewalk, his audience the whole world.
Admission is free, but if you’re gracious enough, you are welcome to share your bounty in a canister that he places strategically in front of him.
He plays a haunting melody, and when someone drops a baht or two in his makeshift box office, he acknowledges the kindness with a bow.
The city is busy, and on its way somewhere. But briefly, it stops and listens and lets the notes heal its weary soul.
The busker is blessed, the city consecrated.