Total Siyapaa
Neha Sharma
Sum of Two Wholes TOTAL SIYAPAA Aasha Singh, fiery and confident, can't wait to get her hands dirty with hard news, and uncover scandals and controversies. A Punjabi desi in London, from India. Aman Ali, smart-aleck and suave, a promising musician, has left the security of a career in finance to follow his passion in music.A different kind of a Punjabi desi in London, from Pakistan. When Aasha meets Aman during her last assignment at the South Asian Hour before moving onto the news beat, they start off at loggerheads. Then fate and friends nudge them together. Their sassy banter blossoms into a delicious romance. But will reality manage to keep them together? From Edinburgh to London and onwards to Udaipur, friendship, love, family and geographical boundaries make their journey a mix of emotions and delight. Sum of Two Wholes – Total Siyapaa is an extension of the screenplay of the Hindi film, Total Siyapaa, Written by Neeraj Pandey, Directed by Eshvar Niwas.
About the Author (#ulink_046d9003-406f-5633-9c6e-11637479e18c)
NEHA SHARMA was smitten by the written word in the first grade, while reading the school prescribed ‘Peter and Jane’ series, and it didn’t take long to realize she preferred fiction to reality, something that holds true even today.
In the real world, Neha has dabbled with copywriting, editing, short fiction and lifestyle features. Neha lives in Mumbai, and is currently working on her first novel.
Sum of Two Wholes
Total Siyapaa
Neha Sharma
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud01afe45-b38f-5eb2-b5a2-a466270eb8a9)
About the Author (#ulink_9d9097e0-608e-553b-9686-7fba68c2a9bc)
Title Page (#u8d1ec207-883e-56a9-ad2e-33f6e5525b68)
one (#ulink_b44b38e1-d7b0-53c6-8a8f-d090dadb0894)
two (#ulink_c1f2eac5-ab51-5e36-8465-fada9ab3c28b)
three (#ulink_35e3fbad-5633-5468-ba37-4f34a754c0f1)
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five (#ulink_dd902fdf-a94c-5345-8d36-eadc2b121e25)
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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
one (#ulink_7e3a55cf-e199-56d5-b21b-a33fd261e684)
“You promised I’d get a shot, Jenny.” Aasha’s voice was low and strained, barely audible above the continuous pounding of raindrops against the window panes. She stood with her back to her boss and her fists balled, at the other end of the cabin, which wasn’t really that far away considering only a bright yellow armchair stood between the two women. Still, Aasha felt it made a point.
The afternoon light was fading quickly into a dark spool cloaking the army of office blocks outside. Aasha followed the tiny dots of humanity rushing along the streets below, all under a canopy of opened umbrellas – the monotone of black artfully broken by pops of colour here and there. They moved as a unit to the rhythm of the rain: one-two-shuffle-quickstep-one-two. Aasha tried to count the mobile Londoners, much like she counted sheep as a child, in an effort to control her temper.
Aasha had been the first at the bureau to track the American spying scandal about two weeks ago. She had chased the international eavesdropping story from a snippet to a storm, much like the one gathered outside the window. A big story like this could turn her career around. It could be her ticket out of South Asia. She had worked on her own time, chasing lead after lead till she had enough information to share it with Jenny.
“What do you think, Jenny?” she had asked, pacing before Jenny’s small but sturdy teakwood desk. “It’s a story, right?”
“It is. It surely is. Listen, I’ll take this to the team.” Jenny pulled off her leopard print horn-rimmed glasses and set them on her head. Her green eyes that were locked on the story docket now focused on Aasha. There was a hint of pride in them, which in turn made Aasha flush. “And I promise if they run it, I’ll push for you. I know you want in on the Global News Team, and if this doesn’t get you there,” she waved the docket about, “well, I’ll be surprised.”
Those words had left Aasha’s mind aflutter. For the next two days she went about doing things in a slight daze. She tried to bump into Jenny around the office, but the woman only gave her a small smile and asked for some patience. To keep her mind occupied she made up tasks: she organized her files and cleaned out her hard drive; when she was done she rearranged her Kindle files. At home she took to cooking elaborate meals.
Aasha generally didn’t cook much: when she was at her flat, the fridge was always stocked with frozen lunches made by her mother – lunch boxes (usually old ice cream tubs) full of butter chicken, rajma, and kali dal, were a constant fixture in her freezer. Her usual culinary practices extended to microwaving home-cooked meals. On the weekends, during the holidays, and when the workload was minimal, she spent time at her parents’. On the off chance that she did need to cook, Aasha always went the whole mile, making everything from scratch.
She was in the middle of a Moroccan stew when the story broke. As waves of havoc were unleashed on this international broadcast, Jenny’s words came rushing back to her. Aasha poured herself a glass of red wine to calm her nerves and drained it in one go. The second glass she savoured, enjoying the rich dry nutty flavours as they hit the back of her throat.
“Jenny! I can’t believe this. Is this really happening?” she asked barely able to hold the phone still in her hand.
“It is. It is real,” Jenny’s quiet voice replied, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow OK? I’ll see you in my office at about ten in the morning.”
She had spent the rest of the evening clutching the wine glass, alternating between TV screen and window pane. Outside the overcast skies, the dark trench coats, and low-pulled hats, all perpetuated the espionage novel ambience, fuelling the story further; a story that Aasha helped uncover.
Aasha arrived at Jenny’s cabin well before time, twenty minutes early in fact. “She is in a meeting downstairs,” Ron, Jenny’s PA told her. “You can wait for her inside, but it might be a while.” Aasha didn’t mind. She made herself comfortable on the yellow chair, and reached out for a stack of magazines on the desk. She barely took in the words; her leg bobbed up and down continuously.
Jenny’s office was a lot like Jenny. There were no frills, no sentimental crap. Three big news stories were framed and put up on the wall, as was a Buddhist painting. On her table the only personal item was a photo frame with a toothless little girl in the arms of a doting dad, both grinning – Jenny’s daughter Sophie and partner Tim. On one side of her table sat a stack of magazines and newspapers. On the other was a vase with four lilies. That was it. Everything was clean and gleaming. Everything was ordered and organized.
“Aasha,” Jenny greeted her. When Aasha made to get up, Jenny waved her down. “Sit, sit.” Despite her five-inch heels supplementing her five-foot frame, people still towered over Jenny and she preferred talking to them sitting down.
“Sorry, I got held up a bit,” Jenny pulled her chair and settled down. When she made eye contact with Aasha it was with a hint of apology, “I’m afraid I have bad news, Aasha.” Jenny had been dreading this conversation and watching the light leave Aasha’s eyes made it worse. As Aasha got up and walked towards the window, Jenny tried to salvage the situation, “You’ll have to wait a little longer, but it will happen.”
When Aasha didn’t relent, Jenny continued, “I’ll keep pushing for you, Aasha, but till then you have to manage South Asia Hour. You’re very good at it, and you might even just like this next assignment.” Jenny held out a pink-purple folder for Aasha.
Aasha reached for the file, her shoulders slumped in defeat, “The Edinburg Music Festival?”
“The next big story,” Jenny added as a peace offering, “you’ll be on it. Let’s talk again when you get back from Edinburg, right?” Jenny swivelled around in her chair, making a slight squeaky sound in the process. She extended a perfectly manicured nail to the intercom button and issued an order. “Listen, Ron,” she began while her eyes remained fixed on Aasha, “put me down for a breakfast meeting with Aasha next week Monday. At the Orangery.”
And that had been it. Even as Aasha settled back down in her cubicle she wondered if there was an argument she left out, if there was a line of thought that would have finally convinced Jenny. She wondered if she’d given in too quickly. She picked up the itinerary docket she had dropped on the table – Edinburg Music Festival, her next destination, not 10 Downing Street, or the Home Office, but Edinburg Music Festival. If Jenny wanted her there, she’d have to go there, there was no way around it.
Aasha had been fourteen when she decided she was going to be an investigative journalist. “Papa, I’m going to be a reporter,” she had announced one evening over dinner. “Shabash, beta!” had been her father’s response, while her mother beamed on, serving a large helping of aaloo-gobi and promising to make her kheer later. “My daughter. Reporter. I like it!”
And once it was agreed upon, Aasha had approached it like a mathematical equation. She went about assembling all the parts, and that too with honours, till she got the desired result. The day she’d graduated from the London School of Journalism, her family was present in the crowd, proud and beaming, and being very Punjabi. They had whistled when she got on stage and her father’s voice could be heard ringing around the hall, “Most well done, beta! Most well done!”
“You should have brought a dhol, na,” she had complained sarcastically over the celebratory family dinner at Bangalore Express, her favourite Indian restaurant in London.
“Hain! Pehele bola hota, beta, toh we would have arranged for a dhol. Dhol kya, we would have arranged for a whole band-baja!”
“Haan bhai. Why not, why not?” her mother had chipped in while digging into her crab curry. “Our daughter. Reporter! I like it!”
When the BBC came calling with a job offer, the high-pitched phone calls to Mumbai, Delhi, and Amritsar could be heard across half of London.
“Our Aasha, biji, our Aasha will be on BBC!”
Word had spread quickly from aunt to uncle to cousin to aunt-in-law to great grandmother to the family priest to the ayah who once took care of her during a family trip to India. With each retelling, the family distributed mithai: her parents ran up and down their apartment block, going door to door with a box of sweets in their hand, much to the amusement of the predominantly Nigerian and Korean families living in the building; her relatives in India reached out to every passerby, yelling, “Ye lo! Our daughter will soon be on BBC! Aap bhi lo ji.”
Even though Aasha tried to downplay it all, she had been incredibly excited; she had secretly enjoyed the family’s excitement. Soon she’d be trudging through trenches, uncovering conspiracies and cover-ups; soon she’d change the world in her own little way as an investigative journalist.
Now when she thought back to those first few months, she realized her mistake. She should have held out for the right profile instead of signing up with the first option presented to her. If she had held back then, she’d be where she wanted to be now.
“Aasha, we’re thinking of putting your community knowledge to use on one of our new shows, South Asia Hour. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
“Yeah, why not? It’ll be a good learning curve. A good stepping stone.”
She figured this was the ‘paying her dues’ play. Once she proved her worth, they’d move her to the real news. Instead she proved to be so good at her role, she found herself running the entire segment in no time.
Her show aired every Thursday. Every week her parents rushed through their chores, particularly her mother, leaving enough time to dress up smart for the show. As soon as the title track of South Asia Hour – a typically dated composition of tablas and a sitar, started, Mr. and Mrs. Singh would pull the armchairs towards the TV, dragging them noisily against the flooring, leaving faint scratch marks resembling tiny razor nicks, and plant themselves in front of the box for the next hour, including the breaks.
This was the only time Mrs. Singh let go of the housework. Usually she’d watch movies or her TV shows (mostly on Zee TV) while shelling peas, or cleaning herbs, or cutting vegetables, but not during South Asia Hour. Similarly, her father would put on his reading glasses, fold away all distractions, including his cell phone – which he didn’t fold away but he did turn down the ringer to silent, to watch the show. No one was allowed to talk during the show – her brother bore many a thwacks for breaking that sacred rule; it was second only to the one where you got things thrown at you if you ‘made a ruckus’ when Tendulkar was in the 90s.
It always amused her how they’d insist on sitting right in front of the TV. “Arre, it is so that I can concentrate fully,” her father argued each time she bought it up. No amount of coaxing could get them to alter the arrangement. This is how they did it come rain or sun or Karva Chauth.
Each show received the same feedback, “It was too good, beta. First class show tha.” A little down the line as Aasha began to tire of her profile, she mentioned her frustrations to her parents. They were baffled.
“But, beta, you are working for the community. You are on TV and that too on BBC every week, what more do we need?”
Except it was always ‘camunity’ – they uttered the word as if in an incredible rush, each syllable meshed into the preceding one. Like if they didn’t get it out soon enough, a part of it would be left behind. It bothered her no end. When she was in school, she’d try to correct their diction, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of duty, but it never did any good. If anything their accent simply got worse with age. She figured it was time to give up.
“Why you want to work in a war zone, with bombs and terrorists, and all those terrible things when you can work right here, being so comfortable and so very safe?” her mother asked, a deep-set frown swallowing her entire forehead. “Besides,” she’d add, “This way all those eligible Punjabi boys and their mothers get to see you every week, looking so beautiful, and so smart; it’s so much better than a matrimonial agency ad or one of those marriage websites. This way they will come to us. And we will choose hain.”
Unfortunately for Aasha, and much to her mother’s joy, there were many of those Punjabi boys – more so Punjabi mothers, calling for Aasha. In those first six to eight months there was a flood of profiles awaiting their weekly Sunday lunches. Jia, her sister, always laughed the hardest; she loved ripping open the letters, reading them out loud around the table and dissolving into fits midway through. Aasha found the letters, some dabbed with a bit of attar, others carrying a hint of rose water, equally ridiculous. But every now and then her mother got serious about one of the matches – ooh, look how handsome this fellow is, and a doctor too! Or, hai, so nice-looking na, Aasha, and look he has such a big house in Cardiff. When such pests popped up, Aasha promptly went out and found a short-term fling to ward off any unnecessary drama. The conversation that followed was typical:
“Are you with someone, Aasha?” she would ask without fail. “Who is this boy? Bring him home. We must meet him.”
“It’s still very new, Ma. I like him very much, but I am not bringing him home yet. I don’t want to scare him off so quickly.”
“What is there to scare? It is simply a meeting, where are we asking him to marry you on the spot? If you are seeing someone, we should know if he is a good person, isn’t it?” her mother had stopped abruptly mid-conversation as a revelation lit up the insides of her mind. Aasha could sense the worry ooze into every part of her body, turning the conversation from carefree to tense. “He isn’t Gora is he, Aasha?” she’s asked as her face lost more colour, ironically making her look as gora as a ghost, “or Gujarati?”
“It doesn’t matter, Ma, you are not meeting him right now. If it gets serious, I promise I’ll bring him home, no matter who he is – Gora or Gujarati!”‘
“Arre, shubh, shubh bol, Aasha, shubh, shubh bol!” she’d mutter.
As Aasha went through the music festival docket, she made a mental note of all the related paraphernalia – dates, train tickets, hotel booking confirmation, festival and artiste profiles. She flipped back to look at the dates. She had a nagging feeling she was missing something, but what?
It took about an hour for her to realize why the dates were significant. Her mother had specifically requested she come over for dinner on Friday. On Friday, day after tomorrow, the day she was heading to Edinburg. Fantastic. This was going to be a brutal call but Aasha believed in ripping off the Band-Aid. She picked her Galaxy S4 and hit speed dial #2 and waited for the Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram ringtone.
Her mother answered on the fourth ring. “Haan, beta, bol. I’m at the market. There is so much preparations to be done for Friday’s dinner na, that’s why. It’s all very busy busy. You tell.”
“Hi, Ma,” she began after taking a deep breath. “Accha, I called to say I won’t be able to make it on Friday. I have a new assignment; aaj hi mila. I have to be in Edinburg for a few days and my train is on Friday, in the morning.”
“Hai Rabba! No, no, Aasha, you can’t do this to me! Friday dinner is so very important. You cancel your train ticket. Cancel it!”
“What are you saying, Ma? I can’t cancel it. It’s work. Waise, what is the deal with Friday? What’s happening on Friday?”
“Aasha! How will I save face now? This is impossible,” her mother cried into the phone. “What will Mrs. Sodhi think? And her poor son. He is coming all the way from Berlin just to see you. What will I tell them? This is not done, Aasha!”
“Wait up, Ma! Who is this Mrs. Sodhi and why is her son coming from wherever to see me?” Aasha felt the day’s frustration rise up again. Never before had her mother tried to ambush her so blatantly.
“From Berlin, beta. Don’t be upset now. It is all for your own good,” she retorted in that stubborn mother-knows-best way that Aasha hated so very much. “The boy is an investment banker. So handsome, Aasha, so handsome. And very rich too. Our Vimla Aunty from the third floor is his mother’s childhood friend. She only mentioned him to me and you to her. It will be a very good match, Aasha. Very good, even your father is happy.”
“But I am not happy, Ma! I don’t want you calling random men to meet me!”
“Random kidhar, beta? I told you na Vimla Aunty is knowing him so well since he was wearing diapers. She is giving full guarantee about his character. What more do we need?”
“Ma, I am at work right now and I can’t talk about this rubbish. We’ll talk in the evening. But rest assured I will not be around on Friday. Enjoy your dinner with Mrs. Sodhi and her son.” Aasha spat out into the phone. She knew this was the worst possible approach to take – this would only encourage her mother to indulge in some rona-dhona, something she enjoyed very much.
Aasha didn’t call her mother till the following day, when she felt a little calmer. “You are not setting me up with anyone, Ma. Bas.”
“But why? Are you seeing someone? No, na? Then what’s the harm? You never know, you might like the boy.”
It was on impulse that Aasha blurted, “But I am, Ma; I am seeing someone right now.”
“You are?” her mother’s tone was robust with the confidence of someone who knows a bluff when she hears it, “What’s his name? Where did you meet him? Bolo?”
Aasha could feel her feet getting sucked into this quicksand of lies. There was nowhere else to go but down. “His name is Roger. He is a journalist and I met him through work.”
“Roger?” her mother sounded shell-shocked, “Gora?”
“Yes, Ma. He is really nice.”
He was. Or he had been. Aasha had really been smitten by him, enough to still feel a slight heaviness over their break-up two weeks ago. Roger was a freelance journalist, a real investigative journalist – the kind that went down to the trenches and wrote five thousand scathing words about it.
She had fallen for him fast and hard. For his light green eyes that danced with mischief and passion, sometimes at the same time. For his deep, carefree laugh. For his surprisingly soft dark brown curls. For that ever-present five o’clock shadow he wore – the scruff made him a damn good kisser too; his kisses were just the right amount of soft and rough. For a while she was convinced they’d make it all the way to the mandap.
Ironically she had imagined this exact conversation with her mother, and she thought about the inevitable meet-the-parents dinner that would follow. Roger at one end, her parents, her siblings, her niece, and daduji on the other. It would have been just as cruel as lighting firecrackers next to a sleeping puppy. The scenarios that played out in her head were so terrifying that when Roger did eventually call it off, she had been a tiny bit relieved despite the heartbreak.
“When are you bringing him home then? If it is serious, we must meet him,” her mother tried to rally around. “Of course, I’ll have to come up with some story for Mrs. Sodhi. She will be angry, but what to do now?”
“I’ll figure it out after I am back from Edinburg, Ma.”
Roger and Aasha had lasted almost eight months, her longest relationship since high school. She still missed him from time to time. For example, he’d have loved this music festival gig. But he was probably saving a village from a bunch of bloodthirsty militia men somewhere in Sudan right now. Or maybe he had moved on to battle an apocalyptic storm with a banana leaf in the Philippines. She was sure she’d read about it.
That was what drove the wedge between them in the first place.
“You have a great life here, Aasha; you have way more than the world gives most. What are you complaining about so much?”
It had ticked her off so badly she was spluttering for words. She tried to count to ten to curb the red-hot rage flowing through her but she only made it to four.
“Please don’t lecture me, Roger. I am not complaining about my life. I am complaining about my job – because I know I can do better, enough to make a difference.
Besides, you’re one to talk Mr. One-foot-out-of-the-door. Every time you get bored of the good life, of the London pubs, of central heating, and modern plumbing, you run back out to the ‘world’. You run off to your prize-winning stories.
Well each time you do that, I am still stuck here, covering a Bhangra-Rap off or some such atrocity.”
They broke up five days and multiples fights later.
He left for the Sudan soon after.
But her mother didn’t need to know that, not for another four-five months at least.
Kings Cross Station was teeming with weekend traffic; people were scurrying off in multiple directions like army of ants before the winter, with great haste and purpose. She wondered if Jeff, her cameraman/man Friday/out-and-out magician, was already on the train. Aasha was sure Jeff was over the moon with this assignment.
The Edinburg Music Festival was showcasing a record number of South Asian artistes this year, which is why Aasha was on assignment. She’d be interviewing the artistes, the organizer and the fans for a special segment for South Asia Hour. It actually sounded like fun. Besides she had met some of the acts before, in previous interviews, and seeing them again would be enjoyable, she thought as she scrambled on to the train looking for her seat.
“Oi! About time!” Jeff called out as he shifted inwards towards the window seat. During one of their earliest assignments, Aasha had casually mentioned her preference for the aisle seat. Since then Jeff always slid in without complain or comment, despite his gangly frame. She loved him for it.
Jeff had a good ten years on her, but he had a much younger heart. His wild blond hair and his slightly glazed-over brown eyes that always had a ridiculous story, or adventure as he like to call it, to share. He had done more and seen more than most people. He had spent his early career chasing gritty crime stories, including the infamous Richardson Double Murder, where two teenage girls were brutally murdered by one of their uncles. The story had been the biggest of his career but it also changed something for him.
He could no longer stomach stories of human depravity and suffering. He drifted towards more peaceful and beautiful ventures – the arts, creativity, even sport when possible. It was during this time in his life that he teamed up with an inexperienced Aasha for a couple of South Asia Hour episodes – those were episodes that Aasha truly enjoyed shooting.
Aasha stashed her bags away and pulled out a purple cardigan and a paperback, merely grunting in greeting.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still sulking over that spying story. You shouldn’t be.” He said with great authority.
“I’m not sulking. I am pissed. There is a difference. Besides even if I were sulking, you’d not have one decent reason to get me to stop.”
“I would too,” he began ticking off reasons on his fingers. “For one, this way you’ll actually get to see the sun, and trust me, love, you need to catch some of them golden rays. Not everyone is as lucky as I am to be perfectly coloured all year round.” It was a feeble joke but she cracked a smile, and that was enough for Jeff.
“Second, this is a neat gig. It might not be the assignment you wanted, but it’s much better than a lot of things you’ve done,” he continued. “And finally, and pay close attention to this, because this right here is a life lesson my dear: music is always better than politics. And foreign music is always better than foreign politics. Always.”
two (#ulink_df3c9eb1-da74-5cf6-8113-61e80fec3c52)
Edinburg was enjoying a good summer. The sun was boisterous, even generous, shining on for hours at a stretch without a hint of rain overhead. It was the kind of weather that encouraged girls to wear something small and pretty and the boys to put on a pair of shorts and dress them up with flip-flops.
Aasha walked past shop windows that were decked up with potted peonies and daisies, a riot of pink, yellow and white. There was a hint of music and poetry floating in the air, tickling her nostrils and caressing her hair. Despite her earlier irritation, she could feel herself relax; by the end of the assignment, she knew she’d fall in love with this place.
“This is a big deal,” Jenny had mentioned at the briefing as she distributed the festival programme, the same one she had presented to Aasha in the pink-purple folder. Jeff reached forward to grab it, as did Subir, her co-anchor on the show, passing copies along to the show director, Mandy, and coordinator, Feroz.
“It’s the first time the festival is hosting such a large South Asian contingent. I thought it deserved a showcase – maybe even the whole hour dedicated to the festival; something on the lines of a behind-the-scenes or a making-of-the-festival kind of a segment, but with a South Asian angle for our viewers.
Subir and Feroz will handle the back end, here. Source the music, talk to the music companies, scour iTunes, find any interesting backstories you can. Aasha and Jeff will get the footage we need. Talk to the organizers, artistes, fans, anyone else who’s relevant. Make it interesting. Make it impressive.
Any questions?”
Aasha checked into her spacious room at The Caley. Jenny obviously knew how to bribe her employees in style, Aasha thought as she took in the sweeping view of the Edinburg Castle from her little balcony. With the sun tucked behind a turret, it threw a soft golden aura around the structure, giving it a touch of magic and mystery. It reminded her of the stories she’d read as a kid; they usually involved faraway mythical kingdoms, impossible quests, and impossibly brave heroes.
Aasha took a deep breath and held on to the intricately carved wrought iron railings of the balcony. The soft late morning breeze ran through her silky black hair and danced around. She allowed herself a small smile as she stood still. Everything about this place was reeling her in – the view outside, the large, warm tub (with pretty smelling bubbles and prettier candles) inside. What was a girl to do but give in?
As Aasha stepped into the bubbling warmth, she felt her body instantly relax; the knots that had developed over the last four days were slowly dissolving in this peppermint and vanilla concoction. She let her head rest against the tub and closed her eyes; she had a couple of hours to herself and she was going to make the most of them.
Aasha was not particularly gifted when it came to music, and like many things in her life the blame lay squarely with her parents. As a kid, Aasha was made to stand at gatherings and sing or recite poems she had learned in school or Indian ones her father taught her – poems no adult understood or cared for.
“Aasha, beta, come sing Aunty a song!” her parents would urge with great enthusiasm. “Aasha, beta, recite that poem you learned last week for Uncle!”
There she stood in her frilly, stiff frock, with a neat bow behind, her hands clasped together, singing Bollywood hits, or reciting ancient poems, in front of an indifferent crowd. After each rendition, the adults who were polite enough to pay attention doled out fake praise, even as they secretly hoped the pushy Punjabi mother would call off the cute croaking child. Others, less polite but more honest, stared at her with lingering distaste, like she was chutney gone bad.
Aasha hated it. As she got older, she promised herself she’d have nothing to do with music or poetry, even if her life depended on it.
Her parents never saw it that way though. They spent a great amount of time and energy recording each performance.
“When Aasha has a family of her own, we will show them what a talent she was! Look at the applause she is getting”
“Haan bhai, even Mrs. Sharma was saying our Aasha is a most gifted child, and everyone knows Mrs. Sharma doesn’t give compliments like that easily.”
The videotapes had accumulated in a dusty box for years. In fact at one point, so much time had lapsed since the tapes were mentioned, Aasha dared to believe they were well-forgotten. That was till the day her brother came totting about a bunch of converted-from-VCRs CDs.
“Don’t you worry, beta, we’ll never let your childhood ka talent go to waste,” her father said with great pride. “I arranged for all those old tapes to be converted. Now we can watch them whenever we feel like. Which one should we start with? Aasha? Beta, kaunse wale se start karna hai?’”
Those CDs could bring a festival like this to its knees, she thought wrapping the spring jacket around herself as she stepped off the kerb to cross the street. She had arranged to meet with Jeff at the little bistro across the road for a quick working lunch. She was five minutes late. Her time in the tub had been put to good use; she had worked through her issues and had arrived at a solution: she’d complete this project, and yeah, she’d do a great job with it, then she’d issue Jenny an ultimatum: Move me or I’m moving.
Jeff was nowhere to be seen so Aasha found them a cosy corner table for two. The table itself was round, like a garden table, and was covered in a white lace tablecloth. It held a potted orange plant along with a salt and pepper shaker and a bottle of olive oil. It was, Aasha thought to herself, all very quaint. Soft piano notes came floating out from one of the many open windows along the street, probably a rehearsal underway. Aasha ordered a beer for herself and fired up her iPad to take a look at the festival programme and performing artistes. There were two lists – the actual list and her list; all the artistes vs. artistes from the Subcontinent, the festival vs. her work.
“Sorry, sorry am late!” Jeff called out to her ten minutes later, pulling her attention from the screen. Jeff had his hands full. Slowly he set about arranging his equipment, which was previously slung across his shoulders, on the floor, against the wall. He smoothened out his wrinkled forest green shirt but in vain. Aasha wasn’t surprised to see him in his trademark khaki cargo pants; each pocket was stuffed with work-related titbits – wires, batteries, SD cards, pen drives, super glue, and other last-minute fixes.
“Man! Luxury looks good on you, Aasha,” he quipped with a kind smile once he had settled down. Clearly he didn’t miss her flushed but relaxed complexion. “So I guess your room had the ridiculous tub as well, eh?” He reached out for her glass of beer and took a generous gulp, moving out of her reach as he did so.
“Sorry I’m late,” he offered once again as he set down her now-drained beer glass. “I kind of fell asleep. You know how it is with hotel pillows. Have you ordered already?”
“Would I dare order without you? I mean look at what happened to my beer,” she replied cheekily. Jeff snorted in return. “Good, I’m starving. Let’s get some food on this table.”
“How is this table even standing? And how are you not a cholesterol bomb yet?” she asked him over a mouthful. “This is ridiculous Jeff!”
“Ridiculously good! Stop talking and keep eating. Trust me it’s going to be a long day; I’d rather face it with a full stomach.” Jeff dug into a portion of his apple and arugula salad, alternating the green spoonfuls with generous portions of lasagne, grilled vegetables, mushrooms, garlic bread and French fries. Each bite was accompanied by gulps of beer, this time his own and not Aasha’s. In contrast, Aasha’s roast chicken sandwich and glass of lemonade seemed like a sparse meal.
“So, who do we have first up?”
Aasha had just taken a big bite of her sandwich so she waited to swallow the bite before answering, “The Crashing Waves Collective. I’ve interviewed them before. They have an amazing story. I think you’ll like them.”
“Really?” Jeff asked, except it came out sounding more like ‘weally’ thanks to all the lettuce blocking the words. He chewed his food quickly, ignoring Aasha’s crackle of laughter. “Who are they? And what kind of music do they make?”
“I interviewed them last year at the London Jazz Festival,” she told him. “They were performing at Ronnie Scott’s.”
“Holy moly!”
“Yeah, and they lived up to it too. They are two brothers, from Sri Lanka,” she took a sip of her lemonade remembering the two slight young men with the most polite manners she had ever come across. “They have an incredible story: they lost everything, including family, during the Asian Tsunami. They were in their early teens at the time,” Aasha told a now-attentive Jeff.
“For a while they bounced around from camp to camp till they were transported to a centre in Australia.
During the interview, Aravinda, the elder brother, admitted they really struggled in the early days. I guess it was more like PTSD, that and severe cultural alienation.”
But Australia was also where their story found a new narrative. It was where they were introduced to Jazz.
“They had a young and engaging therapist. She had tried to get through to the two boys for weeks but they wouldn’t speak. Finally she used music to draw them out of their shell. Romesh, the younger one, told me she tried a number of musical styles and nothing really worked till the day she played some Jazz – Miles Davis, it was. And that was it. It was the first time the brothers communicated with a staff member.”
Aasha had enjoyed talking to them; she was grateful to them for sharing their moving story. And she really looked forward to seeing them again.
“From there on they found their way back through Jazz. They’ve been performing together now for about four years, and their first song – they always start with it, is called Belinda’s Chasing Blues; it’s about that young therapist.”
Neither Jeff nor Aasha said anything when she finished the story. The both looked off at the horizon, lost in their own thoughts for a while.
“This is why I love this job,” Jeff said quietly, breaking the silence. “You get to meet some exceptional people and then you get to meet them again and again. It’s like I said, Aasha, best job in the world!”
She smiled back in response. Sometimes, it really was a rewarding job. She stole a quick glance at the street clock before rechecking her schedule.
“We need to wrap this up, Jeff. We’re meeting the media liaison officer – Duncan McIntyre, in fifteen minutes.”
“McIntyre? I met the guy last year when I was here and the two years before that as well. He is a pretty cool guy. You’ll like him. He always gives answers.
Besides this is his eighth season here. He literally knows the festival like the back of his hand.”
“Welcome Ms. Singh,” Duncan McIntyre offered his hand to Aasha. He almost had to double down his six feet five frame to reach her outstretched hand. “Is this your first time here? At the festival?” he asked her, his unruly blond hair falling across his forehead and into his ice blue eyes.
“Please, call me Aasha,” she insisted before addressing the remainder of the question, “Yes, it is my first visit. I am very excited about the programme. And you know my colleague, Jeff Mars.”
“Jeff, welcome back. Always good to have friends return to us!”
Duncan had a very easygoing vibe about him. Aasha could see why people gravitated towards him. He was dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt, but he wore them with an edgy attitude – there was definitely a little rocker in the mix of things. He turned back to address Aasha, “If you’ll follow me, I’ll walk you through all the significant bits of the festival, and I’ll try to answer any questions you may have along the way. I’m dropping you off with The Crashing Waves Collective, right?
Aasha stepped in line, matching his pace. Jeff was right behind her. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve interviewed them before, actually. They are a talented duo.”
“Yeah, we believe so. And great lads to share a pint with too.”
Duncan introduced Aasha and Jeff to the inner workings of the festival – the various practice rooms, sharing histories and trivia, as well as old hands, people who had been with the festival since conception. Jeff kept the camera running all through the exchange.
Keeping Jeff’s advice in mind, Aasha didn’t waste any opportunity. “So, Duncan, since we are on camera, tell us about the surge in artistes from the Subcontinent at this year’s festival. Was it by design?”
Aasha couldn’t help but notice Duncan’s ease with the camera. He clearly had enough experience to understand camera angles and light. He held his body just right. He would translate really well on screen.
“It was something that just happened to be honest,” he said with a slight shrug. His eyes twinkled and he had an easy smile. Yes, there was no doubt he’d look good in the capsule. “I mean, we didn’t sit down and say all right this year let’s have a record number of artistes from this region of the world,” he continued as they navigated a beautiful corridor with mosaic murals on either side. “We wanted great music on display at the festival and we went about assembling a set that did just that.”
Jeff asked them to hold off on the conversation as he took a few quick shots of the passage way, the artwork, and the building interiors. These would be filler shots, barely a second or two long in the final product, but they would give that touch of authenticity to the story.
While Jeff was busy, Duncan made small talk, sharing ghost stories (“Come on, Aasha, every half-decent cultural festival in this part of the world has a resident haunting they are proud of; we do too!”) and his cigarettes with Aasha. He also extended an invitation for evening drinks at his favourite pub. “You’ll get to meet some of the other artistes there as well. It’s a great environment.”
When Jeff was done, he turned his attention back to Duncan and they resumed from where they had stopped.
“If people still want an answer to why we have a large concentration to artistes with roots in the Subcontinent this year,” he continued once they resumed the walk, “Well, we offer two options for that: it’s a coincidence or it’s an indication of a rich musical history. Personally, I believe it to be a bit of both.”
As they got closer to the Hub, where The Crashing Waves Collective were to perform later that day, their time together was drawing to an end. Aasha took the opportunity to ask Duncan one last question; it was a question she would repeat a number of times over the next few days, “Duncan, if there’s one South Asian artiste here you’d recommend, if there had to be just the one, who would it be?”
“Just one?” he asked, his darker eyebrows bunching up and hiding in his blond curls. She could see him thinking, the names churning around in his head, one after the other. And just when she thought he was going to back off from the challenge, his expression changed.
“We have some exceptional talent at display here. But if you put a gun to my head, there is this one guy – Aman Ali,” he pulled up a profile of a good-looking young guy on his tablet. “The kid’s from London, but originally from the Subcontinent. He is doing very interesting things with his music; I’d recommend him.”
three (#ulink_0bac7286-c17f-5f7d-9ead-32d1a628ecd9)
Aman took a deep breath before he flashed his trademark boyish smile at the audience, all of whom were on their feet, applauding. Over the last eight months, Aman had received a fair amount of adulation, but this was a slightly different scale. This was overwhelming.
He clutched his guitar with his left hand, holding it suspended, slightly above the floor, as he thanked the accompanying musicians on the stage with him. As they took a bow, he did too. He then held out his right hand and waved to the crowd. This single glorious moment alone, he realized, made up for the colossal stress-ball of a year he had waded through to get here.
“Thank you!” he called out. His voice was surprisingly steady despite the flurry of emotions coursing through him. He was filled with a surge of hope and confidence; but there was also a hint of relief twirled around it. Music had always been a part of him, now he could be a part of music too.
His story was meant to have a very different ending. Aman had been on the fast-track before he deviated from the plan – one that involved a new Masters degree and a shiny corporate job. It was understood that he’d spend the next two years climbing the corporate ladder, establishing himself in the industry, and once he did, his parents would find him a wonderful Pakistani bride to settle down with. This would be followed with the social standard of two kids, fancy car and big house – a fairly acceptable happily ever after, if there ever was one. His parents were of a liberal tilt, of course. There would be no village girl for their Aman. No, they would find him a lovely foreign-educated Pakistani girl – a lovely foreign-educated Punjabi Pakistani girl. After all, Aman deserved the best.
The Ali family had relocated from Lahore to Vancouver when Aman was eight years old. They left their old crumbling family home, one they shared with a large extended family, to start over on the other side of the world.
In Lahore, Ashraf Ali was a bank clerk. It was a good, respectable job, but it wasn’t enough to sustain his brood of eight.
“Come to Canada. There are many options; the kids will have opportunities to do anything they like. What will you do in Pakistan? It will take you another ten-fifteen years to get to a good post. And till then?” his second cousin Abdul had said to him during one of his visits home. “I’ll help you with the papers, aap sirf haan bolo.”
It hadn’t been an easy decision to make, and it hadn’t been an easy move to make. The cold, the isolation, the culture, had jolted the family more than they expected. But Aman took on this new life as an adventure. He adapted to the alien environment with great ease. Even when his parents and older siblings struggled to find an acceptable kebab house, Aman and his younger sister Zara were wolfing down unfamiliar foods like cheeseburgers and hot dogs.
To begin with, both Ashraf and his wife worked in his cousin’s little restaurant – Badshah. Ashraf also did a morning shift at a local petrol pump to supplement the family income. It took four long years but the Ali family finally set up their own ethnic grocery store specializing in Pakistani, Indian, Sri Lankan and West African ingredients.
The store, Ashraf & Sons, was a runaway success. The family now owned a chain, including two across the border in America. The ‘Masala Empire’, as it was dubbed in a feature by The Vancouver Sun a few years ago, was now headed by Aman’s eldest brother.
As their financial situation improved, Ashraf grew adamant that his children study, and study well. His two oldest kids were already getting involved in the store, but he wanted the others to have the opportunity to be doctors or engineers or lawyers.
The day Aman got his acceptance letter from Oxford to study Economics had been a very special day for Ashraf. In fact the whole family had been euphoric. And very Punjabi.
“Beta! Tu ne izzat badha di!”
“Shabash, beta! Shabash! I’m going to call everyone in Pakistan to tell them our Aman is going to England! To Oxford. Allah ka lakh, lakh shukar hai.”
It was exactly the opposite reaction of what he had received eight months ago, after he’d received his Masters degree, and before he’d started on his musical journey. He had held his job offer in one hand as he shared his new plan with the family over an excruciatingly long Skype call.
“I don’t want to work in an MNC. I want to make music. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m taking the year off to see if I can do something with it. If I can’t, I’ll go back to Economics. But I don’t want to go through life without even trying.”
His parents, and his father in particular, had balked at the idea.
“You’ve worked so hard for your degree, why throw it all away, Aman? You could really make something of yourself here. Are you ready to let it all go on a childish whim?” he had argued.
Aman could almost see his father pacing around in that neat living room in Vancouver, trying to find some comfort in the frantic, repetitive action, while his mother tried to calm him down.
“We left Lahore so that you kids could enjoy opportunities we never had,” he had continued, “and now you want to waste it on music? Beta, you have a gift, but it’s not this gaana-bajaana; it’s your brain. The sooner you realize this, the better it will be for all of us.”
“Socho, Aman, who will want to marry a musician? Most of them end up … playing on some dirty street corner, performing for cents. No, Aman, that will not be you. Absolutely not,” his mother had added, her voice wobbling with an endless stream of tears.
Aman had spent the rest of the evening staring at a painting of old Lahore that his parents had given him before he moved to London. The watercolour, a replica of a painting by Dr. Anwar, portrayed a typical Lahore bazaar. The grand old structures stood stoically as Lahore’s chaos unravelled below them – tongas, cycles, rickshaws, strays, men, women, children, wares, fruits, stalls, all managed to squeeze into the frame. Aman barely remembered what that life had been like. They had returned to Lahore only once – to see his Badi Ammi, his aunt, who had stage four lung cancer. He only remembered flashes now, and what he saw in the movies, or what he heard from his parents.
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 (#ulink_4964e2e9-d6f8-5949-880f-db9565bc4e21)
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 (#ulink_309e0b2e-5c87-58c7-8a5d-782805e8f738)
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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