Kabul music shop owner Mohamed Salim is quite literally erasing the Taliban from Kabul - he is taping new music over the cassettes of religious chanting which the former regime forced him to sell.
Until now, there were few customers to his store, one of 15 clustered together in Farashgar Street - Kabul's centre of music.
The Taliban banned music, along with singing, which were both viewed as dangerously provocative.
The only tapes allowed were those of men chanting - women were banned from even this. These tapes are monotonous, and there were few customers.
But with the Taliban gone, Farashgar was alive with noise and customers as the shops reopened yesterday.
Hundreds of mostly young men are packing the shops, pushing and jostling to get to the front of the queue, waving notes of the local currency, the Afghan, in the air.
The speakers of Salim's store are turned up to maximum volume.
"This is the best business in five years, I've never had such demand," says Salim, 22. "We're very happy, you can't imagine how much, just to hear music again." This morning he is dubbing over a tape of a Taliban chanter named Fakhir Mohammed, whose chants were a firm favourite until the regime fled the city on Monday.
The chants are being replaced with the snazzy soundtrack from an Indian film. Indian music is the favourite among Afghans.
Outside, Salim's music merges with a cacophony of tunes - Indian and Western - from the other stores, creating a feeling of some wild music festival in central Kabul.
Until Monday night, when the Taliban fled, business was bad, and also uncertain. "If a Taliban came to the shop, he would say 'give me one cassette, I will pay you after'," says Salim. "But maybe the money would never come. What could you do?" In fact, what he did was to find a clever way to fool the Taliban. Behind Salim are shelves stacked with tape boxes.
Each handwritten label announces that the cassette contains Taliban chants. But inside are cassettes of Indian music, sold to the few daring customers determined to risk arrest by listening to music.
"They would come into the shop, and in a low voice say, 'hey, do you have any music, you know?' and I would tell them. They would take the cassette and if they were stopped by the patrols they could just show it and say 'look, it is fine'. The hard thing was for me to remember which Indian singer was in which cassette box," he says.
The problem was the men from the Taliban's notorious Ministry for Vice and Virtue. These were the religion police and the shopkeepers of Farashgar were a favourite target.
"I was in jail four times. For one month, for one week, the last for 18 days," says Salim.
A stroll through this city shows a society finally able to stretch its legs after years of Taliban slavery. "The feeling is like being a little bird, like now you can finally put out your wings," says my translator, Feridun.
All over this city, people who are still shocked by the speed of the collapse of the Taliban are erasing traces of the mad seven years of their dictatorial rule.
Children are flying kites again in the parks, one of the many things banned by the killjoy Taliban. Most women remain wearing the burqas - their lot has improved little - but here and there is a flash of ankle and high-heeled shoe. In Taliban times such a thing would have meant a beating by the police. And the barber shops are jammed with customers - not to shave their beards off, but to trim them.
"I am a Muslem, I am happy with my beard," said one man. "But I want it to look good." Now Salim's customers have a new problem. Supply. With the overland route to Pakistan cut, there are no more CDs and only dubbed tapes on offer to a public suddenly clamorous for music in their lives.
This means prices have shot up: A tape from Salim's shop that was £1.80 when you risked jail to buy it is now £2.80. But nothing drives away the customers.
"We love to hear music. Indian, Western, it doesn't matter," says Salim.