The lengths of my stride shorten as I approach the sound of furiously pulsating hand drums. Such scenes of bedraggled street performers are ever-familiar in London town, but here in Brick Lane the hastily duck-taped instruments and calloused weather-worn hands belong to a slightly more exotic contingent. There are to be no wailing Oasis covers on this East End corner today. No pale sinewy limbs strumming guitars and pleading with Lady Fame to return for them. Instead, four sets of mahogany eyes stare intensely at the tautened skins of the drums beneath them, their vivid adornments flailing with every deliberate strike. Bhangra, in its purest form, beaten out in perfect unison by the hands of eastern strangers and rising up into the atmosphere to dwell amongst the hookah vapours and foreign chatter. These throbbing rhythms allow me to transcend the restraints of geography, and for a brief moment I leave the ashen East End pavements behind. Instead, for one fragile second in time, I find myself enveloped by the whooshing of Shari’s and the sweet scent of fruits carried aloft on ebony scalps.
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