An evening, and A season of Music

Six Months ago.

Ajit was sitting on his balcony, enjoying the chill after sun down, a gentle breeze was ruffling his upturned shirt sleeves, and forcing its way through his dirty hair. Reminding himself for the 12^th time that week to have a bath, he stubbed out his cigarette on the heal of his floater, and picked up his guitar again.

He quickly ran through the major scale in every position, the series of notes almost melting into a continuous whole, rather than remaining distinct notes, as his fingers flew over the fret board. A slight smile lit up his face, as he ran his left hand through his hair, and cringed over the need to bathe. But there was time enough for that, and it would make no sense to waste a lovely evening in the bathroom.

The sun had set a few minutes ago, and the air was still being warmed by walls and roofs radiating the heat of the day, and occasional breaths of cool air, conjured from some corner of the heat saturated world that was Vijay Nagar brought momentary relief. He looked out over the balconies and terraces that lined the narrow lane that was the backbone of Vijay Nagar, with a collage of meaningless haphazard construction, the sole purpose of which was to provide migrating hoards of college students a place to live, and a reason to pay rent.

He wasn’t a college student anymore, but it was possibly the most accurate description of him. How he managed to sustain himself was a bit of a mystery, but he usually had a fair amount of money on hand, and never seemed to deal with the financial drought that was endemic to residents of Vijay Nagar.

He was also quite popular, amongst his friends, and often aimless evenings in his flat would turn into small sized gatherings with weed, booze, and conversation taking center stage. Ajit preferred strumming his guitar as he listened.

On that day he was alone, contemplating the changing color of the dusky sky, and trying to conjure up the inspiration to write a song about Vijay Nagar, something that had escaped him so far.

Then he gave up, and picked up an older tune he’d written, and decided to struggle with finding words for the song. But there was nothing to sing about. He couldn’t sing about the problems of the poor, at least not in English, he couldn’t sing about the problems of his own, they were too inconsequential to form the basis of a song worth hearing. What else was there to talk about? Women? The things he knew about them, or thought about would probably serve a stand up comedy routine better.

“How did they do it?” He asked himself, “those guys who wrote those great songs?”

“There had things to sing about.”

“Yeah, well so do you/I (it was always hard to get the pronouns right when chatting with yourself)”

“Like what?”

“Well, poverty, and unemployment, and hunger… or even corruption, or love, or communalism, there’s enough messed up in India.”

“Yeah, but I don’t get those things, I don’t identify with them ya, as in what do I know about poverty? And my own version of poverty is far from legit.”

“That’s bull shit. Just write what you want, it  might sound good.”

“Nah, I don’t want to write something just for the heck of it.  Look at the stuff  Dylan wrote, that’s the kind of stuff I wanna write. I mean, am I going to be playing for the people who deal with the problems? They won’t even understand English man! So I can’t… then who am I playing for? People like me… right? So why should I sing to them about poverty, I’m no reformist, and even if I was, how would singing help, this lot, would clap, cry, whatever, and go back home, quite happily. They’re not going to do shit man, so what’s the point. I’d rather sing to them about something that will make a difference to them, and make them think.”

“So do that na…”,                                                                                                                                                                    

“And talk about what? They don’t think… they’re so caught up in their tv shows and movies, they think life is one big game. The problem is, basically, these guys have lived in a bubble all their lives, and don’t realize, or even have a way of realizing, what the world is like. I’m not saying I know, I just know that I don’t know, and they don’t either. Maybe, that’s the problem, I don’t know what I don’t know.”

“Okay, you’ve confused me, er… yourself…”

“Abbey, shut up, let me play the guitar.”

And he did.

As he was playing a few random chords trying to figure out which way they sounded best, two of his friends walked up the clangy steel ladder that lead to his floor. As he paused his strumming, the long straight hair of Nupur, and the curly fuzz of Julian appeared on the ladder, and in due order their faces and the rest of their bodies followed.

Julian and Nupur had been college mates of Ajit. They too lived in Vijay Nagar, unable to find equally economical accommodation anywhere else in the city, and waiting for increments to move up in life. 

They would visit Ajit often, and sit and chat. Nupur was a designer, not of fashion, but as she liked to say, anything that didn’t adorn the human body, she would design. She operated as a cross between an interior designer and applied artist. Julian was doing his  masters, studying Ancient Indian Languages, which probably was the most impractical course Delhi University offers, and seemed to take his fancy for that reason entirely.

It was no secret that he could take up his father’s mantle as producer of high quality brake pads whenever he wanted, or alternatively, continue to pretend to be using his life well, and have his father pay his rent, phone, internet, food, petrol, and college bills, not to mention a sizable allowance. After all, why not?

“What kind of song could I sing for these two,” Ajit asked himself maliciously, as he put down his guitar.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” he said to them, “What brings you here?”

“Oh nothing, just wanted to chill for a while, figured you’d be home, and we could chill.” Said Nupur, as Julian sat down in a corner and started chipping from a small bit of hash he withdrew from his wallet. “You wanna smoke?” he asked both Nupur and Ajit.

“Yeah man,” said Ajit, while Nupur shook her head in a polite negative. This drew a smile from both Ajit and Julian. She always said no, and always smoked afterwards, and always pleaded it was just a few drags, for politeness’ sakes, though she got as stoned as the next guy in the circle. “What?!” she looked up into their condescending eyes.

“Nothing, nothing, wha? Huh? No, nothing man, I didn’t say anything, no no…” the two others trailed off while still grinning at her.

“So what you working on?” Asked Julian, indicating the guitar.

“Oh nothing nothing, still haven’t thought of what to say about Vijay Nagar… it’s just not coming together.”

“Hmm, play something though…”

“Yeah play na, play na…” says Nupur.

“Hmmm okay...” Ajit withdraws into himself as he selects a song to sing. It’s an old Bob Dylan number, Like a Rolling Stone, that he had only recently learnt. As his whiny imitation of Dylan’s accent resonated in the street below, he sang with the kind of abandon that comes only with knowing that there is no way he could sing better than he was singing now, deplorable as it was.

His friends were either tone deaf or very indulgent, something which never failed to amaze him, as they put up with him singing. As he brought the song to a crashing end, he looked up impishly, wondering what they’d say.

“Did you watch the latest Twilight movie,” said Nupur as Julian pulled out his phone from his pocket and answered a call.

“Huh!” Ajit was startled, “okay… no why would I watch twilight? Do I look like a 16 year old love starved girl?”

“Oh please okay, it’s not like that, many people watch it, it’s made so much money.”

“Ah yes, and the amount of money you can convince people to spend is an indicator of how good your work is? Next you’ll say that the kind of marketing plan created for something indicates the quality of the product?”

“How is that relevant,” Nupur asks, with a deal of satisfaction, long winded abstract conversations on life, the universe and everything being her greatest source of entertainment.

Ajit’s response was, “Think about it, it’ll make sense,” this accompanied by picking up the guitar conveyed his lack of interest sufficiently that Nupur didn’t try to press the matter. The resulting lull was filled by Julian lighting the now complete joint, and taking a deep drag on it… the thick mist of smoke he exhaled veiled Nupur from Ajit for a second, and Ajit felt adequately inspired by the spectable to improvise a lick, specially for the moment…. And as its last wailing note died out, he looked over at Julian with a smile. “Smells good.”

“Is good,” Julian replied as he passed the joint on. Ajit took a deep drag on it, and subsequently coughed. “Oye! He looked over at Julian, "How much stuff have you put into this? It’s fucking strong man.”

“Yeah, he heehee,” Julian giggled back stupidly. Ajit wagged his head, and tsked at his glee, and took a shallower more cautious drag on the joint. He then offered it to Nupur, who took it, looking not one bit self-conscious, which to Ajit was achievement enough.

Then Julian’s phone rang.

“Oh hey hey hey,” he said, as he answered it. “Yeah man, what’s up? Wow! It’s been long.” Then he listened for a bit, “No way, you’re in Vijay Nagar? What the… what are doing here? But it’s great man… yeah yeah, for sure. Oh wait… no I’m not at home ya, I’m at a friends, but come here, he won’t mind. It’s all cool… come over. Yeah get to the Mothe Dairy store, and give me a call, I’ll direct you in.”

“Hey dude,” said Julian turning to Ajit, “You don’t mind if someone comes over do you?”

“Nah man,” Ajit said, “Guy or chick?”

“Chick.”

“Is she hot?” Both Nupur and Ahit said, Nupur obviously ironically.

“I don’t know man, sometimes she is, but she’s an old friend….”

“Old friend as in,” continued Ajit, making pelvic thrusts in his chair, and lifting his eyebrows in question. “or just friends.”

“Oh no man,” said Julian, trying to act scandalized, “Just friends.”

Ajit took the joint from him with a knowing smile. There was a pleasant silence descending on things, Nupur was messaging someone, Julian was out of Ajit’s field of vision, and seemed to be rather still. The sky was quite dark now, and had it not been Delhi, a few stars would have been visible.

Ajit plucked a few tentative notes on his guitar, wondering if it would destroy the mood. A progression of bass notes in the scale of G seemed right, if a bit too low, he combined it with unmindful picks on the higher strings. Playing low notes with high tonals, in a weird two note chord… it sounded better, he slowed the tempo down to the point that each individual note could linger and die in its own time.

He played his creation back to himself, varying the sequence a little, and found it was good…  as he was speculating which way to take the composition, the whole moment was thrown out of kilter by Julian’s phone ringing.

“Hey, babe,” he said, “Yeah yeah, I’m coming to get you, don’t worry…  I’ll just be back guys.”

Nupur watched him climb down the stairs with a strange wistfulness, and Ajit felt the first nudges of expectation, and suspense. 'This new girl, who was she? What was she like… what did she do, and more importantly, what was he like to her?' Looking around at the perennial systemized chaos he made his home in, he wished it was a little cleaner, oh yeah, and that he'd had a bath… ‘have to remember,’ he told himself with force.

He resumed his experimental plucking, wondering where the joint was. Nupur had it, as their eyes met, she realized what he wanted, and with a quick, shallow last drag passed it on. Ajit wondered if it would be proper to make conversation, but well, he never had anything to say really. Nothing seemed very worth talking about.

Nupur was the type of girl who did anything because it was worth doing. She chose her movies based on the strength of their reviews, her food on the basis of a reputation, and discussed everything in the Hindu’s editorial page with ferver. She felt strongly about most of what happened, and knew very little about anything as a result. (if you spend all your time talking, when are you gonna read?) and if you said anything to her, anything at all, it was quite possibly offending, which would lead to an immediate judgement and sentence, or something she cared about very greatly, which was worse, cause she would then proceed to tell you exactly why she loved it, and how many other great people liked it for exactly the same reasons, how someone who might disagree, might still be right, it was a matter of perspective after all, but yet, how her perspective was probably the best perspective.

And at the end of all that, she would still expect you to respond, and not just respond, but discuss. Ajit stoically stuck to plucking guitar strings.

It didn’t last long. An indistinct feminine voice drifted up from the stairs. It sounded oddly melodious, even though it didn’t seem to convey much of import. It was one of those voices, melody was just a part of it.

The familiar tingle of the unknown stirred in his stomach, as he glanced rashly at the top of the stairs. An embarrassed smile flashed on lips for a split second, and then vanished, as he looked back down at his strings, with perhaps just a touch more than his usual devotion.

The resulting string of notes, climbing up the scale and then abruptly jumping an entire octave to end even higher than seemed natural, with a wailing two tone hammer on to end was punctuated by sound of feet on the steel stairs, and almost managed to play along to the tempo.

And as he looked up, she was there. ‘oh,’ and he looked back down, ‘akward.’ It seemed funny to him, so he looked back up with a wide smile. “Hey, what happened to Julian?” but Julian was now standing where she had been, and it seemed doubly stupid. ‘ah well,’ he thought again, ‘well where is she?’ he looked over towards Nupur who was shaking hands with her.

As she bent over to introduce herself, Ajit made a quick estimation of her. He couldn’t see her face, but what he could see, the swell of the shirt, and the nice curve in her jeans, outwards from the hips, cresting in a gravity defying lifted butt that curved back downwards an inwards in the kindest manner possible, and he was pleased. More than pleased. Then she turned towards him, her face wasn’t the most beautiful, but when she smiled, it was a gentle rolling wave that broke across her features lighting them up.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Diya.”

“Hey,” he said, leaning across his guitar to grab the tips of her fingers, which was as far as he could go, “I’m Ajit.”

“You play well,”

“Huh? How do you know, you’ve never heard me?”

“Arey, no, that bit you played when I was coming up, was brilliant.”

“Really? You thought so? Oh, cool… thanks…. Would you like me to play some more?”

“Yeah totally,” she said, sitting down on an empty flower pot, the nearest available seat to him.

“Mmm…”

“Hey, listen man,” said a very dischordant voice, that belonged to Julian, “let’s get baked first na? a little more stoned, and even you’ll sing better.”

The voice changed to sweet music as it created those beautiful syllables of ‘let’s get baked,’ and then he burst out laughing as he heard the barb about his singing. It was true, perhaps, but he couldn’t tell, after all, he sang the same, away whether stoned or sober. Still that’s what most reviews said, so he accepted, and anyway, getting stoned was always good.

“Yeah man,” he said, still giggling, “let’s not be too rough on the fresh blood’s ears. Let’s get stoned.”

And another little riff!

“See you’re good man,” says Diya, very knowingly. Ajit’s face displayed wonder, not at the compliment, but at the force of it. ‘why after all?

“Thanks,” Ajit says, flatly, “Lets get stoned, then we can figure out how well I play. Do you smoke up?”

“Yeah,” said Diya, “A little.”

“I love it,” says Ajit, “it’s the best…” and there was nothing left to say for a while. The evening grew darker, lights came on in the street, up and down and across from where they were. The dull hulking greys of dusky buildings suddenly became homes, as silhouettes and movements became evident. Till finally even the sounds carried to Ajit, sounds of conversation, even the thump of feet walking up steel staircases similar to his own ladder.

Soon the joint was being passed around.

Nupur, when she was passing the joint to Diya said, “Hey does anyone want to watch this play on Tuesday? I don’t know who is doing it, but it’s in Kamani, so it’s going to be good. I’m going, anyone wanna come.”

Ajit didn’t answer, he didn’t want to go with Nupur. Diya knew the question was directed at her, though Nupur may not have known this. And Julian, well, when no one else spoke, he didn’t either, he never even got around to asking what he might have said.

“Hey, so we’re stoned?” says Diya.

“Ya,” says Nupuar.

“Yup,” says Ajit.

“Full Power,” says Julian.

“Great, then, Ajit, time to play, I think it is?”

The silence suddenly became obvious. Ajit knew he had to play. He picked up his guitar, oddly pleased that it was black, and completely unadorned. It was plain. It could have been anyone’s guitar. He felt the pleasant wedge it formed under his arm, its weight on his thigh, and the reflective smoothness of its cheap laminate finishing.

“So what should I play?” he asks.

“I don’t know, whatever you want to…”

“Okay, since I’m going to have sing along, I’m going to play Dylan, because the only guy I can sing along to.”

“That works.”

So he plays ‘Hey Mr. Tambourine Man.’ His strumming is a gentle caress, and the chords he plays sound more like whispers, as he sings softly a song definitely not meant to be sung softly. And then it’s over. He looks up from his left hand, straightens from the stoop over his guitar, and allows the others to enter his world again.

“Yeah you don’t sing so well,” says Diya, while the other two continue to do what they’re doing, 

“But you play really well. Do you know blowing in the wind? I could sing that along you know.”

Ajit’s face contorts into apprehension, cloaked by the darkness. “Yeah we could try that, I guess, but, well, just try to follow the chords okay, cause I tend to change the tempo a little everytime I play a song.”

“Yeah don’t worry, I know how that is, I don’t feel like singing every song the same way either.”

“Oh yeah,” says a suddenly animate Julian, “Dude! Diya is a very good singer man. She used to sing with a  band and everything, but it split up. She is the best vocalist I’ve ever heard.”

“Hmm…” said Ajit “okay, let’s try, I’ll sing along too, just to give you an idea of the words.”

He began strumming, the chords were simple, G C and D. Nothing remotely challenging, but he paid close attention to the rhythm, and to the clarity of the chords. As he played the last two chords of the intro, he looked up at Diya, asking if she could follow. She responded with a long blink, and only the slightest inclination of her head, before, right on cue, and on the perfect pitch, she sings the first words of the song, “How many…”

Ajit never felt the need to sing, and instead played through the verse, focusing on keeping his rhythm constant, by the time he strummed the last chord of the verse, he feels quite certain of himself, and looks up at Diya. Their eyes meet, they smile at each other, just as she ends the last note. In the blank note that follows, instead of strumming the G chord, he plays a quick riff, that fills up exactly the same space.

Diya, not the slightest bit thrown off, sings, “The answer…” as though Ajit’s little improvisation was part of the recorded track itself. They finish the song together. Ajit relaxes back in his chair, for once satisfied with his music, or his part in the music.

Nupur says, “Hey, yeah, you do sing really well Diya, really well. I’ve never heard Blowing in the Wind sound so good… sing one more na, please…”

“Nah,” Diya replies, “I’m really not in the mood, I only sang cause I wanted to hear him play. I really liked what you did with the blank chords… play something more.”

“Well, I can’t really. After you sang so well, I just can’t bring myself to sing… it’s quite embarrassing.”

“Just sing na, I only want to hear you play. You can sing anyway you want, it’s cool.”

“No I really don’t want to, sing with me please.”

“But then  can’t hear you play, come on, just play… what’s your problem.”

“I…” ‘well what was his problem.?' “Okay, I’ll play one of my OCs, I’ve written a few songs, okay?”

“Oh yeah, perfect… that’s great, I love hearing new songs, and this one will be totally brand new, first performance and all… ha ha ha ha…”

“Hmm… okay, so is a song I’d written a long time ago, it’s about a girl, as all songs seem to be… well not all, but you know, most at least, anyway chuck the history, I’m too full of history, here is the song.”

He began plucking a slow pattern, from Am, to C, then to D and finally F, and then G to D to C.

I know it's not easy,
In a room full of silence,
To have conversation
With stones....

So you looked to the city,
Shrouded in fog,
And you let your imagination,
Show you where you belong
And silently you leave,
Wearing the Blindfold they chose

Chorus

So you turned back on the bed
Cozy no more
And you bundles, yourslef
Out of the door,
Cause the warmth that
Burnt inside, was No more

Chorus

And out on the Street,
You found the mystery and men
You'd left by the roadside,
The last time you saw them
And you start down that road
Where I can follow you, No more

And I'll live all alone,
In a room full of silence
And the world will look for me
As I make men out of stone!

It was a slow melancholic tune, poignant in its halting discordancy. And he played the last few chords, again, aiming to make them his outro, and Diya, very low, hummed along. As she let her harmony fade away into what should have been the last few notes of the song, Ajit looked up again, and their eyes met. He nodded to her, and she nodded back, a faint smile lighting up her lips again. And Ajit played the chorus through again, as she hummed along.

Last evening

Ladies and gentleman, please welcome on stage, Delhi’s newest musical sensation, Untitled by A and D.  

Thunderous applause, a few hoots. It wasn’t a large crowd, but Untitled didn’t make music for thousands to hear, but for a few to listen to.

Ajit and Diya walked into a single spotlight on stage, a chair and a mic are all that inhabit that space till they appear. Diya walked up to the mic, and said “Hi,” the audience quietened down. The amps pick up a definite click as Ajit plugs his guitar in. He plays a few notes, looks up at Diya, she looks back. “We’re good?”

 “Yup, all set.”

Diya turned back to the audience. This is what the last 6 months of work with Ajit had been about. They had ten songs to perform, and nothing greater to do than perform those ten songs. Weeks and hours of sitting together, on his terrace, her terrace, his room, a friends room, a basement, a coffee shop, side walks… 

They haven’t done anything else for months but work on these songs. They barely even know each yet. Ajit only knows that she wasn’t born in India, not where she was born. Diya hadn’t yet managed to ask who the fatso he spoke to with such delight one day when she arrived was, and it didn’t matter, all that did matter, was what they were going to do now.

6 hours ago.

Diya and Ajit are hunched over his guitar in his room in his house. While somewhere outside a very different music is playing in a party to celebrate their success that night. Somewhere joints are being rolled, bottles opened, and stories told.

All in their honour, while they sit hunched over Ajit’s guitar, straining to hear the notes he’s playing in all the confusion. He thinks he’s found a new interlude in one of their longer ballads. And she is wondering if it’s a new interlude or a new song entirely. They don’t debate over it. They’ll know what it is, when whoever finds the right name, says it. And they’ll know, the name will tell them how to use it.

Mahesh, or someone else, steps into the room. He breaks the enchantment and isolation that the twilight of a single table lamp, meant solely to illuminate the guitar, and perhaps, but not necessarily Ajit and Diya creates. He is a shadow, a third.

They don’t like having people around when they work. They don’t know why, but the feeling of Mahesh in the room, just at the door, looking in at them. The idea of his presence, makes Ajit stop playing.

He looks up, and across at Mahesh.

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you guys coming out? It’s your party man…” then suddenly, “Oh… oh sorry man! Didn’t mean to interrupt anything. But I have joint here with your name on it, so I just thought… but yeah I’ll leave you two… sorry…” the confusing babble ends. Ajit’s eyes are wide, his eyebrows arched, and nose a little screwed up.

“No it’s okay man, no need to apologize we were just doing something, we’ll be out in a minute or two..”

“Hell man, sorry…. You guys are going out right?” Mahesh’s ears turn red, sheepishly he looks at his shoes, and jerks back out of the door.

Ajit looks at Diya… it’s a long moment. For the first time he doesn’t know what those eyes are telling him. He doesn’t know what he wants to tell those eyes. He doesn’t know what he wants those eyes to tell him. They’re deep, and dark, glinting with the amber of the table lamp, and he doesn’t know what they say.

He puts his guitar down. His face feels moist with sweat, his hands jittery. He looks away from Diya, “Let’s go out ya, it is our party. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

“Yeah okay.”

They leave.

Ajit had never thought of that. Did he love Diya? They had spent so much time together, so much beautiful time, creating works of art they both loved. Scheduling time together around obstacles from work to family, lying to other friends, missing out on movies, anything to be together and work on their music.

But what was that…. The music, or each other? What did he feel for her? He had never probed those feelings. On that first evening he’d found her… was it… attractive, he couldn’t even remember her face really, she was Diya, whatever that meant. Did it mean love? No no, she was going out, or sleeping with, or something with Julian right? That was it, Julian his friend, not him. She just sang with him.

Ajit snarled as he pulled his covers over him. But just as he fell asleep, he asked, why snarl? Why?

Why did Mahesh… argh! He forced his mind clear, his eyes shut, and himself to sleep. He sat up half the night staring at his ceiling, but not thinking of… not thinking of what? Who? Who wasn’t he thinking of? Diya? Diya was just a name, arbitrary, shared my thousands at least, then… who wasn’t he thinking of?

The next morning:

Ajit got up, feeling more disheveled than the clothes he’d performed in, partied in and finally slept in looked. His eyes were red from being awake, his back ached from being held tense in one position, and it couldn’t be a hangover, cause he hadn’t drunk, but his head hurt.

He reached under his pillow, and pulled out his phone. Diya was on quick dial, he called her.

One ring, two rings, three rings, she normally answer faster than this, four rings, five rings, what is she doing? Six rings, seven rings, it’s not too early is it? Eight rings…

“Hi,”

“Hey, hello, I just called cause, I won’t be…”

“Yeah, did you get my message?”

“Well something has come up, I won’..”

“I’m sorry, maybe we could”

“No can’t make it to practice today, sorry, maybe tomorrow, I’ll tell you tonight.”

A slight pause

“Yeah, okay, hmm… sorry, no problem.”

He cuts the call. And stairs at the phone. He has a new sms. He opens it up, almost out of automatic habit. It’s a message from Diya.

Hi, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it today, let’s try some other time? I’ll tell you tonight.”

Received 2 minutes ago.