Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  The non-Indos went sleeveless.

  —This is the life, Karsh murmured. It certainly was, though I wasn’t sure it was that of the black-shirted related-to-me-looking man who came up now to take our order.

  —Hi! I exclaimed, guilt-thusing. —And how are you today …

  I searched for the name tag, found none.

  —Ji? I concluded, using the term of respect.

  The waiter appeared partly tickled, largely embarrassed.

  Karsh jumped in. —Hi, boss. We’re still expecting someone.

  The server nevertheless proceeded to Houdini up small bowls of wasabi peas, cashews.

  —Thank you so much … boss! I yapped. He nodded and scurried off without replying, thereby drawing to a close the shortest interaction I’d ever had with a waiter in my life.

  —I think your enthusiasm terrified him, Karsh opined, amused. I whipped out my camera, clicked him, then snapped a few shots off the edge of the roof while he checked his phone every two seconds for a text from Ravi.

  —I just hope he didn’t forget, he said nervously. I was about to reassure him when:

  —Karsh! someone called out. We turned to find a man, early for an Indian (only twenty minutes late), striding bullishly towards us.

  He wore tight-fitting, big-belted blue jeans, major shades, and a beige shirt undone a couple buttons more than advisable, revealing a possibly braidable tuft of chest hair. Hero swaggered into the space, seeming oblivious to everything around him.

  —Ravi, he announced, for my benefit since Karsh had already met him in New York.

  —Dimple Lala. I’m Karsh’s … girlfriend.

  Swaggering in India seemed morally wrong somehow, and I was relieved when Ravi flumped down on the sofa.

  —Ha! Lala. Good Gujju girl, I see. Always by her man’s side?

  —Half Marathi, I corrected. He didn’t seem too interested in my rich and varied cultural background, and immediately popped a generous handful of cashews into his mouth. Like, all at once.

  —Sorry, ya. Been waiting long? he asked Karsh.

  —Na, Karsh replied, shaking his head. Since when did he say na?

  —My driver was still drunk from Shivratri. So we ran a little late. He’s parked streetside, napping it off.

  Karsh looked concerned. Ravi scooped up another handful and shrugged at him. —They like to sleep.

  —They? I said.

  Karsh shot me a look. Ravi raised an arm sky-high and snapped, summoning the waiter back towards us. It was … boorish. But I tried to remain (or become) open-minded; it was all about context, right? Perhaps this gesture worked wonders as far as convincing venues to give Karsh gigs went.

  The waiter appeared, complete with three-cube frozen smile.

  —A round of these, Ravi instructed, pointing to the menu. —And wasabi dumplings.

  I wanted to ask the waiter what his favorites were — they always knew best — but he was already off like a hound on the hunt for his master, and Karsh was saying grace:

  —First, Ravi, I just want to tell you how grateful I am for all your help on this. I can’t thank Mallika enough for the introduction.

  —Mallika’s great, I said. —And Niket. The glamourest lovebirds on the circuit.

  I didn’t know why I felt the need to couple her up. Perhaps because I’d been tagged (by myself) as Karsh’s woman, I wanted to align myself with other boyfriended-but-still-independent females who required profuse thanking.

  —Niket? Ravi inquired, raising his brows.

  —They’re so inseparable people even refer to them as Malliket, I laughed. Ravi laughed as well, a little derisively. Why did he seem to have taken an instant disliking to me?

  Was it my instant disliking of him?

  Karsh, sensing the mildly festering undercurrent, dove in again. —I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to work with someone of your caliber!

  I wasn’t sure what caliber Ravi was, since from what Mallika had said, it seemed this was as much an opportunity for him — to enter the music business and jump ship on his father’s law firm — as it was for Karsh. But like the good Gujju girlfriend I wasn’t, I sat silently (scowling) as Karsh sucked up to Ravi, who leaned back, casually allowing this verbal wankoff.

  The wasabi dumplings arrived. I was craving Indian food, but the closest I could see to it on the menu was the use of cilantro in a Mumbai Mojito — three of which materialized before us now.

  I downed my mojo, observed as they went over a checklist of equipment for the show. Ravi’s right shoulder was slightly elevated; did he secretly sport a knapsack? His face was worn, but his shock of hair was uncompromisingly onyx. I wondered if he dyed it.

  A thin-crust pizza with some weird shit on it (cue: endive, pungent cheese) wafted onto our table.

  —You’ve got to try this — divine, Ravi said through a full mouth. He handed a slice to Karsh but didn’t offer any to me.

  —We live in New York, I sullenly pointed out. It wasn’t that I needed a literal handout, but it was confusing. Was Ravi’s lack of tending to me sexist? Or feminist? —Pizza was practically invented there.

  —That’s so American, he scoffed.

  —Um. I am American.

  He finished chewing and, after a beat, thunked a file on the table. No multitasker, this one.

  —Enough small talk, ya. So let’s run over some legal details for your sundowner show. Karsh, I’ll need you to sign the contract for LHB ASAP.

  He said ASAP “a-sap” instead of “A.S.A.P.” It seemed odd considering the L.H.B. Not to mention I.S.T.

  A.S.S.

  —LHB? Karsh asked.

  —L’Heure Bleu. I’m seeing Sam tonight so can hand it to him myself.

  —Can I take some time to read this?

  —It’s the usual, Karsh. Very general.

  —General in a contract usually means they option your offspring, doesn’t it? I translated. They both ignored me.

  —The LHB show is a make-or-break deal, Ravi said, fanning out the papers. —I had to pull more than a couple strings to get you this slot. It’s a big night for them — a reopening — so keep these things in mind: The contract stipulates you may only play electronica at a sundowner. Ya? No R&B, mainstream pop. And absolutely no bhangra.

  Karsh’s mouth dropped open. I spoke up for him.

  —Huh? But Karsh is king of bhangra. He made that scene in New York!

  —Well, bhangra in Bombay is strictly wedding music, and maybe a couple tracks at that. Something you definitely do not want to be doing, Karsh. Weddings.

  He made a cut-throat gesture.

  —Actually, we’re here for a wedding, I said. —My cousin Sangita’s. And Karsh —

  —But bhangra is so well received, Karsh interrupted. —From my experience.

  —Not in the Bombay scene, Ravi enlightened us. —Here it’s even considered a little … how shall I put it? Lower class.

  I took that very personally on behalf of my ancestors and all the contemporary New York City club kids who danced with delirious abandon to these ancient-Punjabi-modern-hip-hop meshed beats. As well as on behalf of the lower class, though I wasn’t sure I knew them.

  I tried to give Karsh an insider look. But he was just staring at Ravi.

  My mojito had vanished. In me, I was pretty sure.

  —Well, Ravi, if no one in the scene plays it, I suggested, —then maybe it would be subversive of Karsh to do it. Like, Patti Smithish.

  —Patti Smith?

  —A forerunner of the punk movement, that whole seventies downtown New York scene, I informed him, enjoying a delightful matronizing tone in my voice. —And one of the first artists to meld spoken word and poetry into rock.

  —Um. I know who Patti Smith is, Dimple. Shooting at the walls of heartache, bang bang …

  —That’s the other Patty Smyth, I corrected him. I suddenly felt depressed.

  Karsh seemed to catch on.

  —I think I know what Dimple means, he said, cautiously. —I do a
kind of meld as well….

  Ravi held up his baas (stop) hand, then went on to inform Karsh that was a no-go: The big clubs were about Bollywood hits; the indie scene — electronica, trance, techno. That he couldn’t be king of bhangra in the land where bhangra came from. That land had changed with the times.

  Yadda yadda dahi wada. I figured Karsh would point out to him that bhangra itself had changed with the times: morphed in the UK to become what it was now — urban bhangra, what he played. That his meld, in fact, was that of India, the UK, and our New York — which was why it perfectly embodied him, even this generation. But what he said, finally, slowly, was:

  —Well, it’s not all I play anymore. I’ve been mixing it up more at my Adda shows.

  —Karsh, Ravi sighed now, fire in his eyes. —If you break that deal, even with one track, you’re out on your ass. Literally. Which would mean, I am out on mine.

  —What, the crowd will protest? Karsh asked now, a little too timidly.

  —The crowd may not even notice. Mumbai doesn’t have the most discerning clubgoing audience in the world.

  —But I thought Bombay would, I remarked. It was interesting that when it was negative qualities under discussion (or politically correct, usually American, expats talking) this city was invariably described as Mumbai: Mumbai terror attacks, Mumbai nightlife crackdowns. When emotion, longing, homecoming were implicated: Bombay. I wondered idly if a Bombay Mojito would taste different from the second Mumbai one we were now draining. Probably miles better … but leaving you suddenly missing your childhood pet and with an unquellable yearning for another round, which would be served after an excrutiating wait — and maintained a tantalizing inch out of range.

  —But the management would certainly notice a breach of contract, Ravi concluded, signaling the waiter’s return and gesturing for another one of these less nostalgic rounds. —If you kill it at LHB, it will secure your rep. We could follow it with Heptanesia, this superhot spot in Lower Parel. And if you get a following going, there’s NH7 next year. Sunburn. Magnetic Fields. And after? Sync spots! Soundtracks! But you have to play by the rules.

  I turned to Karsh … to find him lapping it up. And what was strange was, rather than this being an entirely new sensation, I felt a flicker of familiarity. Like I could have been naked on the table slathered in sashimi and it wouldn’t affect the rattle and hum, the roll and the rock of this meeting. It reminded me of those rooftop city nights, when Karsh and his cohorts would get so into a jam (AKA communal jerk session), only they and their appendaged tablas, guitars, dhols existed.

  —I’ve got some ideas for photographers for you, Ravi went on. —There’s this guy, Mahesh. Mesh. Part of a cutting edge design collective. A linchpin in the scene. Runs one of Bandra’s only art galleries. They can be cross-promoting you at the same time.

  This time, my man hopped up to bat.

  —Dimple is a photographer, Karsh said, gently but firmly. —She did all my website shots, for starters. In fact, that’s why I brought her along today, so we could talk visuals, flyers.

  Ravi shot me an Are you still here? look.

  —That’s sweet, Dimple. But I think we may want a more local perspective.

  I nodded quickly, trying to look professional (it was all in the posture: straight but not rigid, slight tilt back, no eager lean-in; chin up).

  —I’ll be shooting Karsh around Bombay, and of course his shows. Behind-the-scenes stuff as well. I even got some shots in before you came. And look — a few from New York, if we want to play the transglobal card …

  I pulled the digital out now, scrolling back to a recent Jackson Heights snap: Karsh in a mithai shop vitrine, angled trays of gulab jamun catching the light like doused disco balls — just the shade of his sun-drunk eyes.

  —DJ GJ … get it?

  Karsh’s HotPot party night moniker. Ravi glanced at the photograph and shook his head, almost sadly.

  —Karsh. Mahesh is a Bandra boy through and through. Does website design as well. Speaking of which — get your original tracks up. I didn’t see any online.

  —That’s because … Karsh sheepishly admitted, —I haven’t got any.

  Ravi stared at him horrified, then spit out an olive pit. I swear it came out slow motion.

  —Karsh. You’ve got to have a track. You’ll probably never make any money from it. But it will show you’re serious.

  —I’ve never been more serious, Karsh averred, possibly never more seriously. —I’ll … I was going to dig around Rhythm House for some inspiration.

  —No self-respecting DJ will be seen anywhere near Rhythm House, Ravi warned. —Stick to Soul Seek, Beatport. And get yourself a hot girl to front your sets and you’ve got a whole other in. A spot of midriff goes a long way. Makes them feel sex is imminent.

  —Well, I’ve got Dimple! Karsh smiled cheerfully.

  —The kind of girl who appeals to both the Bollywood bling set and the Bandra hipster, Ravi bulldozered, unblinkingly, on. —Who makes a sex appeal bridge between South and the suburbs.

  —Why don’t you get the Sea Link, I said drily. —She’s been itching for her big break, and you’ll make a killing if you get a cut of the toll.

  Ravi paused, as if working out the math, then concluded:

  —Like that Shailly ladki. Shorten the hippie skirts, and she’s got potential.

  Shorten? India? Maybe it was me who’d hit pause on my notion of what went down (or up) in the motherland. But I had a faint glimmer of respect for Ravi now, if he could consider buzz-cut, blue-green-eyed, single-silver-browed Shailly a bridge. She was more like an island, though a hospitable one.

  Ellis.

  —Shailly? Karsh smiled. —Tamasha? We’re hooking up with her later. Shy used to open for me.

  Ravi seemed pleased. Too pleased.

  This meeting was not shaping up exactly the way I’d envisioned. I’d pictured me and Karsh rolling in as we’d always done: D&K, K&D, KDNY, DKNY versus the world — our sound and vision shaping the world.

  But I wasn’t sure this was that world anymore.

  Sour taste in my mouth. Cilantro? I looked away now, and the sky was a gift of phantasmagic fuschia as the sun, after many hours of diligent travail, began to rung downward.

  Several cocktailistas were now ditching all cool and leaping to the call of their inner shutterbugs: crowding the barrier and snapping, ooh-aahing at the spectacularly quotidian event.

  I felt a sense of relief to sight my tribe, at last unveiled. I shot up and joined them.

  When I returned to the table, Ravi was saying, —Karsh. Sky’s the limit. What is your dream?

  —I guess … Karsh replied thoughtfully, —to play the music I want to play and have it be just what everyone wants to hear … in a festival that includes all genres, races, income brackets … and we all inhabit the same sonic dream … that moment when DJ and crowd become one, song and listener, dancer and dance … and that harmony, that unity, becomes our anthem. Our musical manifesto.

  —Right, Ravi said a little impatiently. —I meant, what sponsors would be your dream? Coke? JD? Dewar’s? Kingfisher?

  Karsh glanced up, startled.

  —How can you dream about Coke? I interjected. Now Karsh gave me a regard I knew well: Cut the sarcasm. I was chastened; this was his meeting, after all. —What I mean is … I guess you could. If it turns him into a global … icon … who can cross back over to the American market?

  —Ha! Ravi laughed, a sharded sound that bounced off the white light of the bar. —That’s so NRI.

  —What’s NRI about that?

  —Who says you have to cross over to the American market for it to count as success? Need I remind you, you all left to pursue the American dream — and now you’re returning in droves to trade it in here. But FYI: This is the Indian dream. And the Indians were dreaming long before there was an America. Hell, you all even thought you were in India when you docked upon your promised land.

  He pushed the papers across the table now
, towards Karsh.

  —I didn’t mean it that way, I said quietly, although I was surprised to realize, in fact, I had. My heart sank as Karsh took the tendered pen … and signed.

  Ravi smiled and, with a good-dog pat on Karsh’s shoulder, stacked the papers and slid them into his bag.

  —Anyways. Maybe Karsh won’t return to the States, if things go to plan here, he concluded.

  Karsh nodded, eyes still on him — and filled, if the half-light did not deceive me, with what looked like gratitude.

  —Listen, I think we’re finished here, Ravi abruptly announced. —I’ve got to get to my eight o’clock.

  It was already eight o’clock.

  —I’ll get Sam the papers ASAP. Any questions before sound check, message me.

  He rose swiftly to go.

  —And, Karsh. For the show? I’d skip the Indian attire. You don’t have to prove you’re from here here. No one dresses like that. A little more cas, maybe?

  Loads of desi hipsters kurta’d out in New York, I thought. What was Karsh supposed to wear here? Probably Nike, Levi’s. Airtel, Samsung. Corporate-sponsor style. Ravi glanced at me, in my jeans and CBGB tee.

  —Not that cas. But you know what I’m saying. It’s all about image.

  —What about sound? I ventured.

  He didn’t hear me. In a flash: gone. I imagined his driver being jostled up from a sun-drenched snooze … as I let out a massive sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath till then, and took Karsh’s hand now and squeezed it.

  —Frock — what a relief!

  —I know! Karsh smiled. —I think I’ve found my man!

  Was mine losing his mind?

  —Huh? Sign a contract to not play any of the stuff you love? And did you notice he stiffed us with the bill?

  —Dimple, relax, Karsh said. —He was in a rush.

  If there was one thing that made me not relax, it was being told to relax.

  I tried to remember to be happy for Karsh as we gazed out over the Arabian Sea. I imagined Mumbadevi, first goddess of this city: a supine sea creature with cresting skin, a hemisphere in her hair, body studded with jutting buildings, moaning with the poor, the groaning rich, the many mud-dumped years of reclamation. Obsidian breath darkly rippling across her imagined chest.