It was the tail end of a commercial on the radio. Yes, I said ra-di-o. Could be that box on your counter, the insert in your car’s dashboard , music and talk streaming from iTunes, or the Tunein app on your smarter-than-you phone.
The sound was pleasing, inviting and brought visions of veiled, Middle Eastern maidens garbed in exotic costumes, sequins and bejeweled belly buttons and foreheads. A magic carpet ride over some wind-swept desert on a twinkling, starry night. I couldn’t wait to Google it, find the meaning of what was quickly becoming an obsession. I would write lyrics, hire a musician skilled in Persian and Middle Eastern Percussion.
I sat at my iMac, my heart racing, my pulse quickening and then . . . and then my world fell apart. The joy I had sought to capture with music, the dream of a made-for-TV movie and the book tours – all gone. I was rudely awakened to the sound of a TRACTOR! A TRACTOR!
There had to be some mistake. No farm equipment should own this name. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. Then I saw the video. And all was not lost. True, the name would always bring me fantasies of far-off places. But, now it would be a corn field in Nebraska or a planting of bright red tomatoes in Sacramento. To the delight of my ears, now and then, I would let the name Mahindra slip quietly off my tongue . . . and lament for what might have been – my, my Mahindra.