Total Siyapaa

He remembered the rickshaws and their motors that sounded so much like farts; he remembered walking through a crowded market, clutching his mother’s hand with an iron grip; he remembered colours, bright ones like orange and green; he remembered aromas of foods he had now forgotten; he remembered running around barefoot with cousins and friends; he remembered eating mangoes. But that was all. He wondered where they’d all be, where he’d be, if they had never left.

The words had stung Aman. Of course, he had been prepared for a parental showdown, but there had been a tiny part of him that remained hopeful of convincing them. That hadn’t happened.

His music was a representation of his story – it was Pakistani and it was Western. No one part could stand alone without the other. He was a sum of two identities, and like him his music was a little bit Sufi and a little bit Jazz, and the two styles did amazing things together. He was unsure of mainstream success, but he knew there were pockets, particularly those with connections to the Indian Subcontinent, that would understand and appreciate his music.

So far he was doing well for himself. He was constantly performing, drawing a bigger and more diverse crowd than he had accounted for. His growing success had also eased the tension between him and the family. After his parents heard his music, and were reassured that he’d never be a busker, they had relented. A fragile peace process was underway, and he was determined to fix things between them, fix them without having to sacrifice the only passion he had.

Aman picked up a bottle of water as he made his way to the vanity van, draining it all in one go. He should have picked up another one, he thought as he discarded the empty one into a rubbish bin. It was a cool evening but he was soaked to the bone. His shirt was stuck to his back and his brow was dripping.

“That was great man!” Dominic, his festival man Friday, said falling into step with Aman. He magically produced another chilled bottle of water. “Here, drink up. You need to keep hydrating at gigs like this. That’s the secret: hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.”

“It was. It felt great. What a crazy rush!”

“You bet. Now drink.” Dominic had attached himself to Aman since he arrived in Edinburg four days ago. It was his job of course, but Dominic had taken a bit of getting used to. The man was a ball of energy, launching into conversation right off the bat.

“I’ve been assigned to you, mate. Get used to this ugly mug. Where you go, I go. What you need, I’ll get, or try to get. I’m the last thing you’ll see at night and the first every morning. Well, almost. But yeah.”

It hadn’t been love at first sight for the two: the first day Aman wanted to punch the chatty and obnoxious Dominic in the face, maybe take out the nose and a couple of teeth with it; the second day they got drunk at The Headless Horseman, a corner pub because alcohol was the only way Aman could tolerate Dominic’s non-stop energy. He wished to God the man had a pause button. On the third day Dominic brought along a miracle hangover cure, a secret family recipe, and became a friend for life.

Right now he was very glad for Dominic’s presence. It meant there was someone to make the decisions and issue instructions. All he had to do was follow. The adrenalin from his back-to-back performances was now wearing off and the exhaustion, a by-product of the anxiety and pressure leading up to them, was finally beginning to creep up on him, crawling up from his toes, to his knees, to his hip bone, his ribs and finally anchoring on his shoulders.

Hopefully those directions led him to a plate of hot food – what he would do for a mutton biryani right now – followed by a warm bed with extra-fluffy cushions. Surely Dominic could arrange for something similar. Hell, Aman would settle for a juicy burger and an armchair right now.

“It should last about thirty minutes, not more,” Dominic’s deep voice pulled Aman out of his own head and back into the present.

“I have the questions here, so you can go through them before the reporter arrives. You think …”

“What?” Aman interrupted Dominic. Having missed the first part of the conversation, his face scrunched up in complete confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“The interview … your interview with South Asia Hour”

“Interview … right now?” Aman was feeling a mix of excitement – he still had to get used to the whole giving interviews process, and absolute exhaustion, as he walked into his vanity van.

He placed his guitar on the table, securing the rich brown leather strap well behind the edge so that it wasn’t dangling. As he made towards the armchair on the other side, he pulled off his sweat-soaked black shirt and tossed it on the floor, before sinking into the soft cushioned armchair.

“I’m wiped out man. Can’t we push it a little bit? Let me take a quick nap and we’ll go in an hour.”

“There’s no time later buddy. I’m sorry. If you want, I’ll buy you fifteen more minutes to freshen up. But that’s it.”

“Fine,” Aman sighed. His legs felt like jelly at the moment and it was a struggle to just put on a fresh T-shirt. Once he was dressed, he reached for an apple on the table and took a big juicy bite.

“Think I can get some real food before this thing?” he asked. His last meal had been a masala omelette (with extra tomatoes and a side of grilled mushrooms) earlier that morning; he had skipped lunch, thanks to a nervous stomach, which meant there was a hungry old lion growling and snarling in his belly right now.

But all the lion got was a lean turkey and lettuce sandwich, and a Coke – a far cry from the biryani he was craving.

“You better not be mumbling at me in foreign,” Dominic said when he caught Aman cursing under his breath.” I could have bought you a breakfast bar. Or a tofu burger. Be grateful.”

“It’s Punjabi, and if you ever bother bringing me that healthy crap, I will have to poison that little flask that is so poorly hidden in your coat pocket.” Dominic simply offered Aman a wide grin in return. He patted his right pocket, just to make sure it was safe, before he urged Aman to finish up.

“So where is this interview set up?” Aman asked over the last mouthful; he set about inhaling every last crumb clinging to the plastic wrap. Aman was still hungry. He was still exhausted. And he was about to give his first major interview. This would either go really, really well, or it was going to blow up in his face.

“We’re doing it at a cafe across the street. It’s a nice setting and if we’re lucky some people might even recognize you from earlier today. A little fan action never hurt anybody.”

four

Aasha was trying to stay calm, but tiny tendrils of anger still managed to escape through her I-am-a-professional-facade causing her to grind her teeth or sigh audibly at regular intervals. Her right leg was constantly bobbing up and down; even her fingers betrayed her with their jumpy drumming on the tabletop. So forceful was her drumming at one time, she even managed to knock down the two empty coffee cups on the table.

Looking around, past the cafe porch and towards the street, it was a nice evening. The street was abuzz with creative energy. Most people were either trouping in or out of a performance. They wore bright smiles and even brighter eyes. Their chatter was mostly musical. It made Aasha envious.

She was growing increasingly impatient, as was Jeff. He had spent his time either chatting up the crowd or slouched in his chair playing a game of Angry Birds. Right now he was grunting at his phone, waging a way between little red birds and tiny green pigs.

A pretty piece of music was playing in the background – Mozart, Jeff informed her, as she went through her notes and questions once again. They were thirty-five minutes past the scheduled meeting. The interview was meant to have wrapped up five minutes ago. This should have been the polite goodbyes part of the programme (or the friendlier ‘we should catch up over drinks’ part), but the artiste – Aman Ali, was yet to turn up.

The only information of Aman’s delay was a text she received twenty minutes ago from his festival rep, a man she had spoken to twice now on the phone:

Hey. Aman’s gig ran late. Should be there in 15. Thanks for your patience! - Dominic

But even that message had come ten minutes late. Aasha wasn’t impressed. Tardiness deserved no empathy; no excuse was enough either. Usually she handled these situations with an amount of detachment. It was just a job after all, but this delay was torpedoing her entire evening –both work and music wise.

“I was really looking forward to catching a gig or two tonight,” Jeff mumbled from across the table mirroring Aasha’s thoughts. He sat with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His hands were clasped in his lap. For a change he wasn’t eating or drinking anything; in fact it was the first time Aasha had seen him without food or drink – maybe this in itself was cause for concern.

“I mean that’s the best part about these assignments.”

They still had two additional segments to record after this – that was two phone calls to two sets of artistes informing them of the delay. One had been very gracious; the other hadn’t, suggesting a rescheduling if Aasha and Jeff couldn’t keep to their time.

Not that it would matter anyway; even if they skipped the last interview, it would still be too late to make it to the Hub later that evening.

“We’re performing at the Hub tonight. You guys should join us,” Romesh had urged Aasha after the interview. “We’ll save you a couple of seats up front. Who knows you might even inspire us to create something new!”

“Yeah, we are on the lookout for a new muse anyway,” Arvinda had joked.

She liked the sound of a crashing waves muse. Jeff liked it even more. “Think about it – me inspiring music. Me being the source of melody. It sounds so right!”

“So right, it’s just wrong.”

But now there would be someone else in that seat, being all muse-like. Someone that wasn’t her. Or Jeff (because if it wasn’t her, she’d rather it was Jeff). Someone who wasn’t them, just because one flaky singer couldn’t manage his time well.

As another strong wave of disappointment washed over Aasha, she upped her carbohydrate intake. She reached for a portion of herbed bun and tore it into two, smearing each end with a dollop of butter. She offered one piece to Jeff before popping the other piece of soft white bread and salty butter into her mouth. It helped take a bit of the edge off, but that wasn’t nearly enough.

She took a deep breath and continued waiting.

By the time Aman and Dominic arrived, both Aasha and Jeff had lost any bit of enthusiasm they had before. Their faces were blank – with a great amount of effort both colleagues had managed to rearrange the irritation they were feeling into a professionally blank demeanour, complete with polite, fake smiles.

“I’m so sorry for the delay.” Aman offered his most charming smile to the pretty brown-eyed reporter.

“I’m Aman, and this here is my rep, Dominic.”

Dominic nodded at the two and took a seat on a separate table, leaving the trio to get on with business, as Aman extended his hand first to Aasha and then Jeff. It was a brief and curt exchange. If it surprised him, he didn’t comment on it.

He took in the twosome, assessing them from the corner of his eyes.

Jeff had turned his back to the table almost immediately as he began digging through his gear. It was time to set up; they had wasted enough time as it was. As laid back as he could be, Jeff in work-mode was a picture of efficiency. He was fast, organized and completely focused. It was an impressive sight.

Aman turned his attention to the dark-haired, almond-eyed woman before him. He did better with women anyway. She was incredibly pretty, he noted, but there was something more to her than just that. He could sense it. There was a fire within her; one she was trying very hard to curtail right now; one that he wanted to poke at, to fuel. He flashed another smile. This one was even brighter than the last.

“Please, Mr. Ali, have a seat,” she said without returning his smile.

“It’s Aman. Please call me Aman. Mr. Ali is my father, and trust me you don’t want him sharing a table with you. He is not into the ‘arts’.” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood. When it didn’t work he tried again, this time in a sombre tone, “I really am sorry to have kept you guys waiting. I got held up by the sponsors after the performance.”

“The sponsors, huh?” Aasha asked with a trace of sarcasm. Her honey-brown eyes lighting up with fiery flecks of gold. God, she was beautiful!

A slow half-grin spread across her face; there was definitely more of that sarcasm there in that smile. It hinted at something big coming towards him, but he couldn’t quite decipher it yet.

“I thought it was the gig that ran late.”

Oh.

Aman cast a hurried, slightly panicked, glance in Dominic’s direction; she didn’t miss the look in his eyes, and her smile only grew at that. The rep was sitting at a table behind her so she couldn’t gauge his reaction, but Aman’s quick and somewhat stuttering recovery told her enough. And if it were possible, it ticked her off further.

“Right, right. The show did run a little over. And everything else got pushed because of it. You know how these things are,” he offered with a slight shrug. “The Domino effect, I guess.”

“Domino effect, right,” she repeated without bothering to mask her contempt.

If he had accepted his misstep, if he had come clean, or apologized for it, or even simply hinted at it, Aasha would have dropped her building grudge; she would have gone back to a clean slate. But his feeble cover-up saw her walls go up further, the bricks stacking up one on top of the other erecting a wall between them.

“I hope it was no trouble.”

“Trouble, not at all. Did you go through the questions we sent across? I may have changed one or two while I waited.”

Ah, so this is how it was going to go. Game on, Aman thought.

“I did yeah. I didn’t have any problem with them. I am an open book, you know. What you see is what you get.” He waited for her to give him a look-over but she didn’t take the bait. Her eyes remained fixed, almost stubbornly, on her iPad.

“So are we recording this thing right here?” he asked. He wanted to hear her voice again; he wanted to provoke a reaction out of her again. He wasn’t sure why though. It just sounded like fun.

“Yeah, you know I figured we should do this in a public space,” she offered, before adding a silent, almost inaudible, “Somewhere with lots of witnesses.”

He would have doubted ever hearing it. He would have chalked it down to his imagination, but the tall cameraman had sniggered right on cue, before turning it into an ill-disguised cough.

“Like I was saying, shooting here allows us to capture the vibrancy of the location; it showcases the spirit of the festival. We also thought it suited your kind of music.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard my music,” he asked with a raised eyebrow. It made him seem even more boyish. Is this how he played the field, she wondered, with a wink here and a cute smile there?

Despite her annoyance, she couldn’t help but notice that he was a really nice-looking guy. Aman was dressed in a simple black T-shirt, black jeans, and a pair of bright blue All Stars. It suited him. He had silky black hair that fell into his eyes ever so often. He also looked fit – not overly built but looking like he could keep up. If she’d come across him in different circumstances, Aasha might have found him interesting.

“Of course I’ve heard your music,” she replied. “It’s part of the job.”

That was only a half-truth. She had heard his music because it was her job, but she had enjoyed it too. There was no doubt this here was a very talented man, and she was looking forward to hearing more of his music, but he didn’t need to know that.

Aman for his part let the subtle barb soak in. It was really well done and he couldn’t help admire the craftsmanship of it.

Lady Reporter 1 - Aman 0

“Yeah,” he replied with a small lazy smile as a retort began to take shape. “I only ask because my music isn’t for everyone. It takes a certain kind of mind to appreciate it.”

Lady Reporter 1 - Aman 1

He enjoyed how narrow Aasha’s eyes got at that, and how her nostrils flared ever so slightly. He could see her resolve strengthening, as if she were rising to the challenge. Aman immediately forgot his exhaustion, his hunger, and his annoyance at this interview. All he could focus on was this gorgeous journalist who seemed to dislike him very, very much. This was going to be fun!

“Can I quote you on that?”

This got Aman to laugh. It was a rich and carefree sound. Aasha liked it too much for her liking. He shook his head and sat up in his chair. His eyes were twinkling and his cheeks were flushed.

“I think we need start over before I find more ways to get myself into trouble. Can we start over again?”

When Aasha allowed him a small smirk, he continued, “Hi. I am Aman. And you are …”

“I’m Aasha,” she replied in a guarded voice. “And that’s Jeff.”

Aasha. Aasha suited her much more than Lady Reporter.

Aasha. A different kind of desi, but a desi nonetheless.

Aasha. Hope.

five

A do-over had been a good idea. A brainwave, all things considered, and he was thankful to Lady Reporter for allowing him one. She could have made things very uncomfortable by lobbing his words back at him on a public platform like career-ending grenades. Instead she’d taken the higher ground; and yet that conceding of ground bothered him too.

Aman ordered himself a coffee, black with a splash of milk and three sugars, and a piece of walnut cake. He was still hungry, and the cake and the coffee were simply distractions till he could chance his hands on a real meal. The food on the table also gave him something to do while the reporters set up for the interview.

The quiet cafe was suddenly aflutter with activity. It was just two people moving about but it felt like there was a team of a dozen blurring around. Aman noticed how both Aasha and Jeff instantly transformed from bothered to professional as soon as work beckoned. They were both on their feet at the moment, Jeff tinkering with the camera, Aasha asking him questions in a language so alien to him, it might as well have been Latin, or Swahili.

Feeling fidgety he looked over to Dominic who had moved further away from the trio. Dominic was now standing with a cup of his own at the far end of the room. Aman was sure it was a black coffee with a splash of something from the hip flask. It sounded like a pretty good idea actually. Despite a stiff coffee in hand, Dominic looked extremely alert as he shifted from one foot to the other. Aman knew if there was a situation, Dominic would jump in with an orange life jacket without being asked. It was something he was very thankful for. He gave Dominic a discrete ‘I got this bro’ thumbs-up sign; there was no point in both of them being nervous wrecks right now.

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