There was a guy at work who spoke gibberish. And there was another guy who actually understood what he was saying. If the boss weren't so cheap, I would think that the whole scenario was an elaborate joke designed to make me crazy.

The incoherent guy had an incoherent name. We called him Baba, as in Ali Baba. He wasn't of Arab descent, he was from somewhere near Kashmir. Nice guy. Friendly guy.

It's not like I've never been around people speaking other languages. You can't spend too much time as a software engineer without working with interesting people from India, Russia, Japan -- all over the industrial world.

Baba didn't have an accent. He had a flair. He spoke quickly, belting out words without giving anyone a chance to call a time out.

"Buhuba mabba undimmu," he said one day. He was upset about something, and gesturing.

I was working on a proposal for some database changes, and was deeply involved with the plan. All I could do is look at Baba and shrug.

But then William rolled back in his chair and said, "He says the printer is out of paper."

"In what language?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"English, you dope." And William rolled his chair back up to his desk and fiddled with his graphics.

I asked Baba to repeat what he said. He said, "Bahuba mabba ondimma." Essentially the same thing. It was definitely not English.

Anyway, I showed Baba the little cabinet where the paper was stored. I was sure he could figure out how to pop out the tray and load it up.

Baba took the pile of paper and said, "Srabata mara."

Seriously. This is how it went, day after day. Luckily for me, Baba was working on a different project, and I didn't have to deal with him too closely. It still bothered me, though. How could William possibly understand those strange words?

* * *

I cornered William in the lunchroom once, and asked him. He made a wiggly gesture with his fingers. I knew enough about William to know that this meant "guitar". William was an acoustic guitar player, fairly good. But ...

"Guitar? That's supposed to be an answer?"

"How did you know I meant 'guitar'?"

"I know that silly gesture of yours. From Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure."

"I think the gesture came before the movie."

It was exasperating. "What's your point?"

"Language is all about familiarity."

"I disagree. It's all about sounds. If you make the wrong sounds, people won't be able to understand you."

"It would be sad if that's all there is to it. Baba's my neighbor, you know. I got him in here."

I didn't know if that was good or bad.

William grabbed a well-wrapped sandwich from the stinky fridge. "Why don't you come hang out on Thursday? Jam a little."

I played some piano. "Yeah. That sounds cool. My fingers are a bit rusty, though."

"Nonsense. You can't forget music any more than you can forget how to speak."

He started munching on the sandwich. I grabbed an Arizona ice tea and went back to my desk.

* * *

Thursday came soon enough. William's house was on a slight hill, just outside of town. On nearby hills, new housing projects were crammed together like tile mosaics. But this hill was the old part of town. The houses were all distinctive, and each had its own yard.

I was a bit late, and I heard music already. The door was open a crack, and I went inside.

Baba and two other guys were there. William was dumping some potato chips into a bowl on the table. A regular visitor named Greg was there, prodding logs in the fireplace with a poker. The music was coming from the Baba group -- guitar, flute and tablas.

They were good, but after staring at them for a moment, the flute solo trailed off, and I discovered that they were playing "White Room", an old Clapton piece. Strangely adapted, but unmistakable.

I thought they were just trying to mess with my head, or prove a point. When William joined in a while later, they went back to playing central Asian music. Interesting scales and flurries, some unexpected sharps, an oddly syncopated beat. William was having fun. He knew what key they agreed to play in, and had learned which notes to avoid, and was doing a good job of smoothing out the ensemble.

They were showing off. I was obviously their intended audience. By now, Greg was in the bedroom, listening to some CDs in headphones. It was just me and the multilingual living room band. It was cool.

But when they urged me to play the piano, I just sat there and looked at the keys. These guys were too good. I didn't know what to do. I finished my Coors and still couldn't think of anything to play. The music they were playing was already fairly dense, and filled most of the audio spectrum. There was some room in the low octaves, but after pounding a few E-flats, I just wasn't happy. Everything they did sounded good, probably because they'd played together a lot. Everything not of mine sounded like a thumb being hit with a hammer.

After a while, they took a break. One of Baba's friends, whose name was Surji, came over and tried talking to me. But he started with "Mebani onawa?"

From the couch, William translated, "He wants you to move your fat butt so he can play."

"Very funny," I countered. I gave up the piano bench. I was having a "bad jam" night anyway. Surji sat down and banged out some nice classical piece. I can't name classical pieces, but it was something familiar.

William asked if I was catching on.

"I'm not catching a damn thing," I confessed.

He wiped the condensation off his bear can and flicked it at me. "I never would have thought you were so dense."

"I wish I knew what they were saying."

"That's just a tiny piece of the puzzle."

“Or playing.”

“You certainly are having a bad night.”

"You're too good for me. If you play another set, I'll just hang out and listen."

* * *

William actually claimed that, after playing music with his foreign friends, he could understand them. I understood a bit more about them, and it was obvious that they were nice guys with a lot of talent. But I still didn't understand a word they said.

About a week later, Baba was laid off. Apparently nobody else in his project team understood him either. It wasn't fair, obviously. But everything at work was a rush, always behind schedule. Baba must have felt like me at the piano bench, only he tried harder.

The next time I went over to William's house of music, the Baba family was there again, playing their unique fusion music. As happy as ever.

I just felt like a guy with a piece missing.