I don't think there's any danger of me playing Indian music.

Host: The evening sun dipped behind the orange rooftops, spilling crimson light across the cluttered recording studio. Dust motes floated lazily in the amber haze, swirling in rhythm with the faint hum of an old amplifier. Empty coffee cups, tangled cables, and a half-broken guitar lay scattered on the floor — the debris of creation.

Jack sat slouched in a battered leather chair, a cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers, the smoke tracing lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on an old amplifier, her bare feet brushing the floor, her eyes glimmering with that mix of warmth and mischief that always disarmed him.

From the corner, an old vinyl record played softly — Leon Russell’s voice, raw and gentle, filling the dim room: “Beware of darkness, watch out now, take care…”

Jack: smirking faintly “Leon once said, ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of me playing Indian music… That was as close to India as I ever got.’” He flicked ash into an empty cup. “You gotta love the man for that. He knew exactly what he was — and what he wasn’t.”

Jeeny: laughs softly, her voice like wind stirring paper “You mean he knew his limits?”

Jack: “Exactly. In a world obsessed with imitation, he stayed grounded. He didn’t need to pretend enlightenment through a sitar or chant in Sanskrit to prove artistic depth. He just played a thumbtack piano and called it an illusion. That’s honest.”

Host: The record crackled gently in the background, as if echoing agreement. A guitar string, accidentally plucked by the draft, vibrated faintly — like the ghost of a note longing to be played.

Jeeny: “But maybe that illusion was the truth, Jack. Don’t you see? Sometimes, what we imitate is what we aspire to. George Harrison went to India not to copy — but to listen, to be changed. Leon might not have gone there, but through the music, through that rhythm, he touched something of it. Art doesn’t need a passport.”

Jack: “Oh, come on, Jeeny.” He leaned forward, the smoke from his cigarette curling around his face like fog around a mountain peak. “That’s the romantic way to look at it. But art without authenticity is decoration. Harrison lived what he played — studied with Ravi Shankar, learned raga, understood the soul behind the sound. Leon just borrowed the surface — tablas, piano, a hint of mystique. It was atmosphere, not experience.”

Jeeny: “But who decides what’s authentic, Jack?” Her tone sharpened, yet carried a glimmer of sadness. “Isn’t music — all of it — a conversation between souls? The blues came from pain, and yet it lives in the hands of every guitarist now, no matter where they were born. Should only those who suffered get to play it? Or is it beautiful because the pain transcended ownership?”

Host: A faint gust from the open window fluttered the sheet music on the console, scattering the pages like birds startled into flight. The room filled with the smell of rain, distant but approaching.

Jack: “You’re talking about respect — and I agree. But there’s a fine line between tribute and theft. Too many artists take without understanding. They wear another culture like a costume — and call it inspiration. Leon at least admitted the illusion. He didn’t pretend. He said, ‘That was as close to India as I ever got.’ That honesty — that’s integrity.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly, but her gaze hardens like polished glass “Integrity, yes. But there’s also humility in knowing that no sound belongs to one world alone. When you strike a piano key, Jack, it resonates through wood, metal, and air — it doesn’t ask where it comes from. Music is geography dissolved.”

Host: Thunder rumbled distantly. The first raindrops began to strike the window, soft but persistent, like a rhythm tuning itself to their argument.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “But there’s something sacred in knowing your place, too. Leon didn’t chase the exotic. He stayed true to his roots — Oklahoma, gospel, blues. He didn’t need incense or mantras to make meaning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t chase the exotic because it already lived in him. You don’t need to go to India to feel its pulse, Jack. You just have to listen differently. The tabla isn’t foreign if your heart already beats in rhythm. Art’s not about geography. It’s about recognition.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the tin roof, syncing with the faint pulse of a tabla recording that still looped faintly on a nearby track. It was almost as if the weather itself had joined their rhythm.

Jack: “Recognition’s fine, but let’s be real — the industry sells illusion. A few Eastern chords, a touch of mysticism, and suddenly you’re deep. Harrison made it art. Others made it fashion. Leon? He saw through it — played with it, sure — but never claimed it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why it’s beautiful. He knew it was illusion — and he admitted it. That’s what makes it truth. He didn’t fake transcendence; he hinted at it. It’s the humility of a man who knows he can touch the sacred only through sound, not pretense.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the room like notes suspended in silence. Jack’s jaw tightened, but not in defiance — in thought. The rain’s rhythm had steadied into a kind of music, a natural percussion that matched the heartbeat of their conversation.

Jack: “You really think illusion can lead to truth?”

Jeeny: “Always.” She smiled softly, almost as if to herself. “Every painting, every melody, every story is illusion — shadows of something more real than we can touch. Art doesn’t pretend to be reality. It’s a doorway toward it.”

Host: Lightning flashed, briefly revealing the golden reflection of her eyes. For a second, Jack’s face softened, the usual cynicism falling away like dust from a forgotten record.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I still listen to him. Leon never sold a fantasy. He just played — raw, imperfect, honest. Maybe that’s the closest any of us ever get to India — or heaven — or whatever truth we’re chasing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” She nodded, her voice tender now, quiet but full of conviction. “We don’t have to go far to find the sacred. Sometimes the illusion is the journey — and the sound is the prayer.”

Host: The storm outside eased, leaving behind the soft dripping of rain from the eaves and the faint hum of electricity in the air. The record had long since stopped playing, its needle clicking rhythmically at the end — a small, steady heartbeat in the silence.

Jack: “You know, I used to think imitation was weakness.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s the beginning of understanding — as long as you don’t mistake the reflection for the light.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Every artist stands in someone else’s shadow before finding their own sun.”

Host: The last light of dusk slipped away, replaced by the soft glow of the studio’s single bulb. The smoke hung low, swirling lazily in the golden air. Jack reached for the guitar, plucked a few soft notes — slow, unsure, but real.

Jeeny listened, her eyes closing, her head tilting slightly as if hearing something beneath the notes — something ancient, familiar.

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s my India.”

Jeeny: smiling through the dimness “Maybe it always was.”

Host: And as the music rose, faint and imperfect, the illusion they spoke of became truth for a fleeting moment — a heartbeat suspended in time. The rain outside had stopped, leaving the city air clean and shining, as though the world itself had been tuned, however briefly, to the same unseen frequency.

In that moment, as the final note lingered, Jack and Jeeny sat in silence — not because there was nothing left to say, but because the music had already said it all.