But this place was a whole other category: a snazzy stately ship deck of a room. My eyes shot immediately to the flung-open doors at its far end, filtering in sun-drenched sea-sky-scape. Out on the terrace, poised between whitecaps and contrails, I could just glimpse Karsh behind his console, Flip trailing close with that Clairefontaine.
Me and Karsh. We were funny that way: so synchronized it was silly. I could practically enter a room earplugged and blindfolded and know he was there, and where. As if on clairvoyant cue, Karsh lifted his eyes just then, caught my gaze and held it with such warmth I got chills. A brief tick in time, but the you-and-me-ness of it: eternal.
He was either going through the motions for Flip or sound check had run late. Sometimes checks ran right into sets, and I wondered if this was going to be the case tonight, given the room tone of low woofered drone. Zoom: Karsh was, I could tell, superexcited. As he breeze-shot with Flip, his features flowed in unison — brows, mouth, cheeks up — and he leaned his nodding-to-the-beat head in to listen to le punkosophe’s obviously uproarious running commentary, judging from his bursts of delighted laugher. And that laughter was looser, richer since he’d spotted me. Catching Flip’s eye, I grinned at him, a wave of affection washing over me. Upon his tee, an überquote: And those who were dancing were believed mad by those who could not hear the music.
I reloaded Chica Tikka; since Karsh was at work, I might as well get to it myself.
—What say we case the space?
—We’ll case the bar, Kavita suggested.
—Yes. We do not want to be disturbing your work, Sangita agreed, as if this was why Kavs wanted to throw it back. —Nor Karshbhai’s.
They nodded me on. I began clicking my way towards Karsh.
We had that dance down: me shooting, him spinning, our double-eared-and-eyed beauty-and-beat beast covering every sonic and visual angle. Even the night we first truly met at HotPot, when I’d been shadowing Zara with my camera: He’d seen, from the balconied DJ booth, that I’d been shooting to the beat. His beat.
Stepping onto the deck was zero cool: out the dim passageway into the expansive brilliance of the Juhu evening, sand-stretched wave-breakered miles to every point on earth. No stars above — though the flickering jets from Shivaji Airport unzipped the welkin with wishes.
—Holy cow, I breathed. Flip nodded at me, face lighting up.
—It’s going to be great, right? Karsh whispered.
—It’s already great, I said. —Go on; don’t mind me.
He seemed afloat in that knockout backdrop: the Arabian Sea–melt swelter of end-of-day Indian sky. Instead of the stout sweet-sweat ferment scent of Karsh’s usual venues, a salt-flecked breeze perfumed the air.
Everything I laid eyes upon moved to the rhythm of Karsh’s song. Or maybe it was me, syncopating.
Back inside, most were whisking tippleward. At the end of the bar, I saw Sangita sitting quietly in her salwar kameez, Deepak standing by her, he sipping a Kingfisher, she a Thums Up. Kavita was surely downing something lethal.
Sangita. She was a trouper, coconut-oiled hair and all, which she’d at some point swiftly braided.
Kavita gestured for me to join, heading my way. She waved our guest-list vouchers at me, then glanced at her watch.
—Look like it’s time to get wasted!
I got the feeling she was already well on her way. We rocked up to the saffron sandstone counter, she coxswaying as if down a lopslid gangway. The bartenders were silently focused, none of that sallying chattiness you got so often in New York, where they were all surreptitiously, desperately trying to figure whether you had leads for financing their indie film while they nonchalantly poured.
She blinged (all) our vouchers, awaiting their attention. The mix of impeccable South Asian girls and boys was now combo-ing up with other ethnic groups: a tall lean black man (unless he was South Indian), a possibly Euro couple (unless they were Fair-n-Lovely desis). As I ordered a Kingfisher, I spotted Ravi amongst them, as usual too many shirt buttons undone for my liking.
He was earnestly imbibing with a corporate type, just two bar stools away. I figured I should greet the frocker. Tonight we were on the same side, after all. I caught his eye, which fell upon me, then Sangita, Deepak, Kavita. And, with the merest nod my way, he turned back to RoboCorp, continuing his conversation. I exchanged looks with Kavita, feigning a sneeze for her ears:
—Ah … ah … arsehole!
Unfortunately, or fortunately, this was precisely the moment the managerial man strode off, leaving nada between me and the object of my disparaging nasal expulsion.
—Caught a viral, Dimple? Ravi asked coolly. —Bombay too cold for you?
—Certain aspects of it, Ravi, I said. I turned to the bartender. —Actually, make that a Manhattan. Please.
I raised three fingers before he cube-queried me, thanking him obsequiously. Neither he nor Ravi were impressed.
Kavita leaned in coquettishly.
—Ah, Ravi. Your reputation exceeds you….
Before he could reply, she seemed to catch someone’s eye and swept grandly down the bar, murmuring, —I think we’re going to need another round….
—Um. Ravi. That … was Kavita. And this is Sangita and Deepak.
Sangita and Deepak smiled broadly, openly — almost idiotically — at him.
—Ah! The wedding people? Ravi asked, sounding, I thought, derisive.
Deepak nodded happily, however.
—Are you a married man? Deepak asked. It seemed he was implying something, although he may have simply been asking Ravi if he’d himself had a wedding. Ravi offered up a minimalist side-to-side nod.
Sangita peeked up eagerly from her Thums Up, and either in a move to smooth things over, or exhibiting complete cluelessness about the not-so-nuanced insult inherent in Ravi’s tone, said, —It is such a pleasure, Ravi. I am truly looking forward to this evening. I can’t tell you the last time I went out dancing!
Without batting an eye, Ravi replied:
—Garba?
My mouth dropped open at his reference to the traditional Gujarati dance performed at Navaratri. I mean, I’d been embarrassed by my sister-cousin’s outdatedness — but no way in bloody hell was I letting him insult her! I was about to suggest to Ravi that he run outside and see if he was there, when Deepak, staring at him with a surprisingly cool blaze in his eyes, very calmly replied:
—Dandiya raas, in fact. Where sticks — or swords — are used. He nodded towards Sangita. —She’s a demon slayer, this one. I’d watch out.
RoboCorp returned, schmboozing his way onto the stool, this time with a sheaf of papers. With Ravi obscured from view, my ears abruptly tuned in to the low throttle of the bass.
Casting a pointed look Sangita’s way, Deepak muttered something about heading out.
—Sorry, Dimple, Sangita said, rising after her fiancé.
—Oh, don’t go, Sangita! I cried, surprised to find I actually wanted her to stay now. —I told Karsh my reservations about that idiot, but he seemed immune to my opinion. He’s just been so worked up about this show….
—No issues. Please do not lose focus: This night is about Karsh’s career, na? But I, we have to run a quick errand.
—Where are you going? Kavita asked, reappearing with another half-drained whiskey. —Don’t let that chutia scare you off.
—It has nothing to do with that chut or this chut, Sangita assured her. It was unnerving hearing this graphic cussword fall from her innocent lips. —We have to visit the caterer; it is the last day we can make changes. In any case, this does not sound like the kind of music Karsh will do at our wedding.
—It’s still the sound check? I offered.
—I am not sure electrical songs are my favorite, Deepak said mildly.
—But you’ll be back for his set, at least some of it?
—We will try but cannot be making any guarantees. Traffic.
She and Deepak headed for the exit. I took her arm.
—
Sangita, I said quietly. —I’m so sorry.
She smiled, and it was with such kindness, I was certain she’d truly heard me.
—No sorries between sisters, she said.
And she was gone. So fleet, exiting.
—Let’s hit the ladies’, Kavita proposed now. —I think I may throw up.
—I know. He’s nauseating, that Ravi.
—No, it’s not that, she whispered. —Not just that …
She opened her mouth, looked about to burst into tears …
… then let out a significant belch.
—How many’ve you had? I asked, nodding at her sloshy glass. She held up her thumb … then slowly added index, middle, ring, and pinky.
I secured her arm. —Okay. Come on, Kavity.
Beyond the bar, the bathroom gender-split, though the sinks in the ladies’ were shared with the men’s, separated by an opaque screen so you could see the silhouettes of man-hands washing, drying, gesturing … or, in the case of the girls’ side, reapplying makeup. Frock, these ladkis knew how to work the kajal. They seemed more than happy to pose for my cam, when I nodded to it and then to them.
The pee-tendant beside the NO PHOTOGRAPHY sign didn’t seem to mind my shutterbuggery either. I stepped into a stall and took a technical break; when I came out, I caught Kavita glancing around nervously, paranoically oversoaping at the sink.
—Kavz? What is it? You look all loo-gitive, like when you used to hide from Sabz and Upma at HotPot.
—Dimple, Kavita whispered. —Precisely. I keep thinking I see Sabz.
—Stress not. She’s safely — or unsafely, for New York — at NYU.
—Well, if she’s in New York, she’s emo-texting me at some very strange hours. Four A.M.? Five?
The blue hour.
—That’s when people send those kinds of messages. Anyway, she’d hardly come to Bombay and not say. Or at least, not get a local SIM card.
—I suppose you’re right, Kavita relented. —Maybe my eyes just see what’s on my mind.
—Abetted by what was not so long ago in your glass. Trust me, no Sabz doppelganging going on here. For one, no one looks even remotely pissed off, except Ravi.
She belched again, and spit something into the sink.
—Bloody hell, I said, digging into my bag. —Here.
—What’s that?
—A Zantac and a Tums, Ms. Premed. Thanks to Mom and Dad. Although they likely thought we’d be using them against food — not alcohol — poisoning. Let’s get you some water.
As we exited, I noted the giant jowly guard by the men’s room door, beside a sign claiming The Use of Drugs Will Not Be Tolerated. Although mine were strictly over-the-counter, I hastily shoved the ziplock back into my pack. Kavita lurched off to nab some agua, but I lingered a moment as I observed, just beside the bathroom bouncer, first one, then another male exiting with downcast shifty eyes. All were fervently rubbing their noses — and not in a single-nostril-breathing type way.
This was surely no drink-on-the-permit-room-cheap crowd, if they could afford nostrilian combustives. I raised my cam, hunkering after this fantastic organically split screen: runny-nosed club kid, immobile bouncer, No Tolerance sign … when the bouncer mobilized and shook a warning finger at me.
I lowered both head and camera, hoping to sneak a shot while feigning a packaway, when there was a tap on my shoulder. Was the drug lord going to monitor my antacid stash?
It was Flip. Had he just exited the toilet? No visible nasal dandruff. He pointed to Chica Tikka.
—Lala. Not here. You’re giving off that moral police operative vibe.
When we emerged, I figured Karsh was still taking part in history’s lengthiest sound check as my zoom revealed a mere handful of people on the terrace. The tuneage was Buddha Bar pseudo.
—Let me know when he’s on, I told Flip. —I’ll shoot the action at the bar; everyone’s there….
—Dimple. He is on!
—Already?
This was peculiar. At Karsh’s HotPot nights, it never took any time to get people moving — plus, this wasn’t even his music. And what up with those psychedelic visuals on the back wall?
This crowd seemed to be on IST in terms of dance spirit. Maybe my visuals were, too. I headed terraceward, figuring I’d give Karsh a little paparazzi ambiance to help push things along.
I passed Shailly at the end of the bar. Alone.
—Hey, Shy. Where’s your crew? I asked, worried now.
—I’ve been trying to round them up. But most can’t afford the cover, or are going to drink first and show later. If you ask me, a lot of them are still scared to land up after what went down here. But at least some of the usual LHB crowd is here. They’ll get it heaving; they just need to warm up.
—It’s twenty frocking degrees! I groused. —Celsius!
—That’s cold here, she smiled apologetically.
The music, a loungey electronica, wasn’t an overtaking kind, the breed that bewitched you, made you drop dishes to dance. It felt more like background hum, perhaps because that’s how the LHB crowd was treating it.
No one, save Flip, who hovered to the side hanging on to his Kingfisher, had eyes on the DJ. And no one seemed to be listening, either.
Even me.
The only other folk anywhere near the console were three black-shirted, way-biceped dudes, arms crossed before them, all eyeing Karsh — but not with any notable pleasure. I was pretty sure I’d seen one of them serving sliders on our way in.
I mostly hung back when Karsh gigged. I didn’t want to be the front-row groupie girlfriend; plus, I was usually too busy shooting the space — or dancing my shoulders off in it. I stuck to the sidelines now as well but could sense Karsh’s mounting terror at the unresponsive crowd. His eyes met mine across the room, and they were wide and worried. I wasn’t sure he’d ever been faced with a dance demographic that didn’t throw it down, and my return gaze was possibly concerned, too.
He cut such a lonely figure, suddenly. And it struck me we were, for the first time in forever, in a roomful of mostly strangers. Disturbingly static ones. We’d gotten so used to our fam gang: Karsh’s parties Stateside were gatherings of friends as much as anything else — like the vibe in Bandra the other night.
These sleeksters just kept chatting away. If people vocalized at an Apple show, they were either singing along or praising the sound. Here, it was as if Karsh — with that mega console, laptop, and all that painstaken gear — was invisible. Inaudible, even. A few people even drifted back indoors, away from the speakers.
Flip spotted me now, and backed up till we were side by side.
—What the frock? I whispered.
He shrugged. —Look, don’t sweat it. This crowd … they can rarely tell apart genres, just sway with the current trend.
Then why weren’t they swaying? And if they couldn’t tell the difference, why was LHB so stringent about defining the styles you could stylus?
I thought: Screw Ravi and his arse-backwards advice! If Karsh had been playing from his heart, surely they’d all be going mad with motion. What did Ravi even know about the way to a crowd’s heart? Or anyone’s?
And where was he anyway?
This was Karsh we were talking about. Karsh knew the way to the heart; after all, his own pulsed to the beat, blood coursed to the bassline. This was the man who went one with two tablas, rolled with the dhol, and Stateside could, without fail, unpin even the staunchest of wallflowers, unfurl them onto the dance floor in whirlwinding bloom. I’d seen it; he’d done it to me. His call to the floor — to let him take you on a journey: The crowd crewed up for that trip every time. Without ever leaving the room, we rounded the world, the clock, DJ GJ our guide — bringing us hot off the Punjabi harvest those ancestral bhangra beats so many of us had near-Fallopian memories of, hip-hopping them all together in an irresistible soulful skitter of a path to our present-day New York City selves.
Before I knew it, I was sending him, the musical captain of th
is swilty ship, a salute, a signal. I netted Karsh’s wide eyes in mine, lifted shoulders and brows in a bhangric shrug. But this time it was an instruction, a summons for him to play from the heart. He didn’t shrug back but knit his own brows, unsure. I pointedly scanned the gabbing ebbing crowd and shrugged back at him with more vehemence. He scanned them as well … and this time when he looked to me, I pointed to the dhol graphic on my chest and pounded my palm thump thump on it, nodding: Go on!
And he heard me, got the message. I saw it and it was magnificent to behold, like he was remembering something from so very long ago, before even our time, our story became our own; this force now poured through him, fortifying his backbone, leveeing him a couple inches higher …
Off the gangplank. Our eyes locked, our limbs loosened. It was him and me. Me and he: we — dual-eyed and -eared. We were the world, and we’d gather everyone into it like we always did. Take a blank page, fold it into a fortune. Double a zero, tip it to infinity.
He thump-thumped back.
With renewed vigor, Karsh now studied his tracklist, fading out the trancey number, notching up another dial. I knew the song before he dropped it — the one he always saved for me at HotPot, the ringtone that signaled his calling on my cell. And then, that base of grace rising in the mix, those exalted opening strains I’d once confused for itchy itchy eye:
Gur nalon isqh mitha hi hi … !
Love, sweeter than gur. It was cosmic. Dholphoric. We the tabla tribe, creating a unified beat with our two stretched skins. And that husk-rustic voice rang primordial, magnetic — Malkit Singhing it — then Karsh’s own overflowing it … count backwards from one, ready to rock, here it comes … his mic’d up call to his desi dance cohorts: Let me take you on a journey … And I let him, would always let him. I lowered my camera and went out there, into the place we made, were making together.
I danced my heart out and in, to within inches of the console. Dancing for him, for us — paving a pathway into this city with rollicking shoulders and firecracker feet, a line from his Juhu sand heart to mine … from the land of we diasporic offspring to this terrain of our mothers, our fathers, our grands … screwing the lightbulb into pulsing celestial light, my palm poised as if to catch the great glowing solar orb that was now dipping, dunking into the Arabian Sea behind him …
Bombay Blues Page 17
