A young man stepped into the hall of mirrors
Where he discovered a reflection of himself
Sometimes he saw his real face
And sometimes a stranger at his place"
- Kraftwerk, Hall of Mirrors
In the spring of 1971, my 26-year-old father would spend his Friday mornings at Kolkata's crowded train station and empty airport. A bright-eyed university student, he would skip a weekly class, and sport the widest of smiles to pick up surly, fussy South Indian classical musicians - chaperoning them around the city to play at music festivals he had helped organise.