Back in 2002, Atlanta, when I first started haunting free Western classical music concerts, I discovered that I could buy classical music on the Yedang Classics label for far lower prices than your regular EMI or Phillips type labels. And the thing about Yedang label was that the musicians on its roster all came from countries classified as the "East Bloc" during the Cold War era. It was on one such CD (yes, if you have $5 to spare buy this gem of a CD) that I had heard Rostropovich play Dvorák - I was mesmerized and very much taken by the beauty of his cello playing. So this rainy morning when I discovered, on accidentally clicking the Google News tab, that Rostropovich had passed away, I YouTubed him playing Dvorák right away, and begun my day thusly:

R.I.P Mastero!

On conclusion of his Canadian sojourn, he returns to his garret by flying southwards into spring. And all this follows: the shock of seeing forsythia's yellow, blankets of daffodils in green grass, making his eye remember the color green, temperature that doesn't require ten layers to prevent frostbite.

And to top all this off, the massive horde of writers who have descended from the heights to the City, in whose shadow he lives, to talk, argue, banter and share all that they know about books with other adepts, and with other lay-people like him. He opens a calendar page, and tries to cram in as many occasions as possible over the next two days, only to realize that he can't be present in two places at once, in this life that happens outside the covers of a book.