In New York, this bhangric shrugfest on the HotPot floor was usually so no-elbow-roomed, the dancers became one not only with the music but with one another: fleshtacular contact — hips bumping, hands skimming, eyes joylocked as vox wand-wove that chorus of hi hi’s and ho ho’s.
But here, it was like spinning in deep space.
Off to the side, Flip nodded his head to the beat, true, but was busy scribbling away in his Clairefontaine. And the only other dance manifesters were this one slithery wick of a white — beige? — guy doing some kind of trippy Woodstock moves to the bang-on beats. There was always one like this in the New York crowd. In fact, maybe even the same one.
And the other groover: a dreamy girl in flowing skirt who was now just before Karsh, engaged in a very odd, yet oddly familiar dance — swaying side to side, singing along though her lips aligned not with the lyrics, as if she were badly dubbed. She held both hands up, palms out in a kind of surrender … then released her ripply ponytail, windmilling topknots-per-hour dirty-blond dreads, eyes fixed on Karsh like a groupie.
Gopi! That devotee from ISKCON — moving just the way the masses did there … only now she was before a console, not a mandir.
In fact, it was probably the Hare Krishna mantra she was chanting.
Just as I realized this, two more figures flung themselves onto the dance floor with almost wanton abandon, and launched into another familiar dance:
Full-on high-octane bhangra moves. Performed by a goofily grinning man leaping around like an aerobics instructor, and a salwar-kameezed woman artfully dodging her own dupatta, thick black coco-loco braid giving the air a good lashing as she whirled up and down.
Sangita and Deepak.
A bench-pressed bulk of an Indian man now broke loose from one of the sleekster pockets and moved swiftly towards Karsh, something playing on his upturned lips — a compliment? A request for more? My heart lifted.
I was close enough to hear — and the space, now loud enough he had to shout — as he leaned in towards Karsh and bellowed:
—Hey, Mr. DJ. Want to play my wedding?
Karsh looked up at him with a gaze so hopeful it hurt, and was nodding, smiling, when the Indo-hulk spat, —Bhanchod! Play some real music!
Sister-frocker. Not the most poetic of appellations. At the top of my lungs, I yawped, —Brother-frocker!, but no one heard me. Or got it. Even me.
A mind-frock, more like: a hot club, a white blond Rasta Krishnite, and a couple of trads throwing it down — it would have looked sure-shot subversive … in New York.
But here, in India, the concept of Indianness probably wasn’t something Indians were trying to subvert. Or prove.
I did a 180, then 360; spun around again in confirmation: a 720? Most of the irredeemably loose-lipped crew had prattled back into the dining area. A few continued their terrace twaddling, foot-tapping but otherwise tune-immune.
The space now appeared a tilting, careening ship-deck-near-wreck.
Behind Karsh, the aphotic urge of the Arabian Sea blending with shadowed sand seemed poised to swallow him up, just as it was draining the psychedelic hues of the sun-done sky.
L’heure bleu it was at LHB. The very same place appeared a whole other venue now. Back to zero: It was like watching a HotPot party night in reverse, a slow rewind of people flooding off the dance floor and towards the bar….
Even the music sounded suddenly distorted, pitching frantically in volume and zigzagging cross-fades.
Back at the decks, a battle of console control was in fact now taking place. One of the hulking black-shirted servers was literally wrestling Karsh off the Serato box. But Karsh wasn’t giving in so easily — how could a DJ just cut off a song midflow?
By the next itchy itchy eye, another man had appeared: the RoboCorp who’d been deep in discussion with Ravi at the bar earlier … and who now assaulted Karsh with a deluge of Hindi, or maybe it was Marathi. His gestures were universal: He was clearly instructing him to quit the console.
—But I’m … I’m taking you on a journey! Karsh attempted shakily — and, unfortunately, right into the mic during a momentary gap in the song.
Ooh. This was bad. A second delivery of the line … and with that negative conjunction: But. I cringed.
It was too late. The plug was pulled from somewhere, only Karsh’s plea resounding humiliatingly through the room … followed by an abrupt, bone-chilling hush.
And then, the worst: The door-two bouncer appeared, gripped Karsh by the arm … and jousted him out from behind the console! Black-shirted server dude actually stepped in, shut down Karsh’s laptop — and took over the decks. This seemed to disobey the very vocational laws of the universe. How could you bounce the DJ?
—Hey! You can’t treat the artist like that! I yelped as Karsh was led past me, hanging on to his control record. —Or he’s never playing here again!
—That would be correct, sister, the DJ police retorted.
—Dimple, Karsh hissed now, to my shock. —Drop it. Just go.
I froze, stunned. What was going on? How had our double-featured creature been sacrificed so fast? And in the moment of silence before our new supposed DJ launched into the venue laptop (and a fuzz of something generically electronic), a ticktock clickclack like metronomic metropolitan rain: the only sound whittling empty air.
Mallika burst onto the terrace in her teeter-heels, Ravi inches behind. She glanced from Karsh and the bouncer to me and back to Karsh again.
—Sorry, traffic, she exhaled. —Did I miss it?
—You didn’t miss a thing, the bouncer replied.
—What? It’s over?
—Oh, yes, Ravi spoke now, arctic eyes on Karsh, then me. —I do believe it is.
Mallika turned then to lay a comforting hand … on Ravi’s shoulder.
And, as if under arrest, Karsh was led out to the dining area.
I followed a beat later, nervously observing as he, clutching stomach, bolted for the bathroom. Shailly hung back at the bar, nodded a warm hello to Ravi and RoboCorp, then caught me staring.
—Shailly! I seethed once they’d passed. —You know these people — say something! They can’t do this to him!
She glanced around the space, then leaned in to me.
—We can’t piss off the management. A gig here’s good money; I don’t want to get blacklisted.
—What about friendship?
—Dimple. This isn’t about friendship. Nothing can kill it between me and Karsh — even though he’s too proud to play my party, which I’d suggested he do in the first place. Guess he’s used to being the main act when it comes to me, but whatever. It’s business. I put a word in here for him before Ravi even got on the case, even sent him a bunch of track suggestions since it’s not his usual deal. To be honest, he fucked up, plain and simple. I can’t put my own livelihood in jeopardy — not just yet, anyway. Not till Crosstreet’s truly up and running.
I just stared at her. I guess it made sense Karsh might find it odd to second-bill for the act who’d always opened for him in New York. But it hadn’t occurred to me there might be a touch of sour grapes in that resistance. I wasn’t sure what to say, so opted for:
—Well … since when are you such good pals with Ravi?
—Since I’m such good pals with Mallika, she said with a shrug. I glanced back at Mallika, at the other end of the bar by a livid Ravi. They stood slightly apart, but there was something funnily intimate about this distance.
It fell into place.
I lowered my voice. —But he’s married, no?
Shailly shrugged again. —What’s a piece of paper?
Mallika stepped up then. Ravi was now, it would appear, groveling with the manager dude.
—What the fuck was that all about? Karsh was playing bhangra? Didn’t he sign the contract?
I didn’t think the what’s-a-piece-of-paper argument would work here.
—You said yourself, Mallika, back in New York, remember? That his sets would go down a storm he
re.
—Dimple! Why would you or he listen to me? Ravi’s managing him. It’s Ravi’s reputation at stake. The last thing he wants is to go crawling back to Daddy and South Bombay like all his spoiled brat friends to ask for money — near forty-year-olds needing written permission to buy a car! He’s trying to make his own way, and I respect that. He just clearly chose the wrong team to make it with.
Whose side was everyone on? I could barely speak, and beelined for the bathroom. Just outside it, Sangita and Deepak were now helping a keeling-over Kavita collect her things.
—Dimple. I think it’s time we push off. Will you be all right? Sangita asked me. —Do you want to come with us?
I gave Kavita’s shoulder a squeeze, torn but clear.
—I have to stand by Karsh, I said. —Seems no one else is.
They left; I waited by the bathroom door. But when Karsh came out, it wasn’t his stomach he was rubbing. Flip followed, swiping his own nostrils and sniffling a little much.
—Flip, I whispered. —Seriously?
He shrugged. Why was everyone shrugging? It was a mockery of the very music that had just been banned from the premises.
—Just taking care of the artist, he said. Karsh was already downing something at the bar.
—Go easy on him, Shailly muttered to me now, appearing by my side. —He gets a little manic on Charlie. You should’ve seen him in San Fran.
Charlie? Karsh? He’d neglected to mention that wee deet to me. So had that been relief in his eyes when we reunited after Shaky City, I wondered now — or repentance? It sure as hell explained his return jitters.
Why hadn’t he just told me? It was amazing how clear our corner of the bar was, like all this negative energy was pushing people away.
—Yeah, I said, halfheartedly fronting. —Manic …
—You should’ve seen it — he was up all night there, by turns feeling like a genius and the world’s greatest fuckup. I told him to skip the blow, especially here. New city, new scene.
—Uh-huh.
—Dude even dropped his sacred tabla case and ended up bashing up the wheels. Like, on purpose. I mean, stick to hash, you know? Mellow shit. Cheaper, too.
Ravi was up by Karsh now. Karsh glanced at him with, affirmative, undeniably manic eyes.
—Still here? Ravi inquired icily. Three cubes plus.
—Ravi … I’m so sorry. But I really was just trying to take everyone on a journey, honest….
—What fucking journey? And desi cohorts? The journey you take them on with bhangra is to the Punjab. To India. And an outdated India. We don’t need a ticket to the motherland, fool — we’re already here!
Though Mallika had painted Ravi as the black sheep of the brown family, he was nearly baboon-red in the face now.
—You signed, for god’s sake, Ravi fumed on. —So you’re not a man of your word, isn’t it?
—I was … trying to be, Karsh stammered, —true to myself.
—Well, you’re a self-indulgent sham, Kapoor. I was so wrong about you.
—Ravi, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I — it won’t happen again. I promise: next show, by the rules.
—Next show? You think this place is going to roll out the red carpet for you anytime soon?
—But surely there are other venues? Karsh whispered, wild-eyed. —I, it’s an innocent mistake. This music — it works where I’m from.
—Then go back to where you’re from. Take yourself on a journey, Karsh.
Ravi stormed out. Karsh froze, then turned towards the bathroom again, and its clearly tolerating hurly-burl of an attendant. I leapt up, caught his hand.
—It’s going to be okay, Karsh. But … maybe you should go easy on the substances?
I worried suddenly about the hereditary nature of becoming an addict. Not that this had been his dad’s drug of choice: booze, more like, and betting. But still. That glazed blaze in Karsh’s eyes was new to me.
—You know, why don’t we take down that sign? he replied, disentangling himself from me. —And you just stand there instead, exuding no-tolerance?
It felt like a kick in the gut, but I tried to stay cool, comfort him.
—You don’t need him, Karsh, I attempted weakly. —You’re not thinking clearly….
—You know what I don’t need, Dimple? I don’t need any more of your great advice.
—Huh?
—Ravi was right.
—Ravi’s an idiot!
—No, Dimple. You were wrong — and you were probably just doing it, goading me on to play like at HotPot, to prove your hold on me to him. I’m the idiot for listening.
I tried to steady my breath. What was it — breathe through the eyes? But my vision was blurry, and it didn’t sound like my Karsh speaking.
—He’s not the boss of you, Karsh!
—Who is? You?
He just stood there, staring me down. I felt my eyes watering … and then glimpsed a softer, older substratum to this raging new skin. I latched on to it for dear life.
—I feel, Karsh whispered, —like I’ve lost my father twice. This was my big chance. Ravi’s chance. And I blew it.
—You don’t only get one chance, I whispered back. —Not everything is make-or-break.
—You do, Dimple, he said, and for a moment, it felt we were having a completely different discussion, one that, if I thought about it, cut too deep.
Shailly stepped in now, taking his arm.
—Karsh, baas, ya. You can make it up to him.
—Why? I cried. —We don’t have to suck up to him, them. This isn’t the only club, the only crowd!
—Um, it kind of is one of the only clubs and crowds in this scene, Shy pointed out.
Gokulanandini joined us now, blithely smiling as if she’d just had a totally different experience of the evening.
—What are you doing here? I asked, more edgily than I’d meant to.
—Lovely view of the sunset. They don’t lock us in the ashram, you know.
She proceeded to take Karsh’s other arm. None left for me; what, should I grab his lingam?
Gokulanandini went on. —Karsh, listen. Everything you need is inside you, if you practice the correct life. A life of devotion. For God loves you … whether you are a DJ or not.
I tried to catch Karsh’s eye, but both of his were trained on her. I recalled with a pang how he’d described Gokulanandini as, what was it? Luminous?
—It probably wasn’t the best night to play, honey, Shy added. —A reopening. My last Crosstreet party? The Shiv Sena shut it down before it even started!
—Because of the immoral women in tiny skirts standing outside doing unmentionable things on the Koli fishermen’s path? Gokulanandini asked sweetly. No, ISKCON clearly did not deadlock those doors. —I heard.
I got the feeling, as far as the party police were concerned, the unmentionable things were … women standing outside in tiny skirts. Or just women standing outside. (Or just … women.)
—Probably more likely the drugs, Shy said. I noticed just then that she was in a tiny skirt, although still inside. Ravi would be delighted.
—The crowd didn’t seem so scared in Bandra the other night, I noted.
—Well, Ravi messed up a little on timing, Shy admitted. —That French dubstep act’s on in Lower Parel tonight, start of their residency. Lazy Gonuts Gondolier. That would’ve drawn a lot of the Bandra crowd; free entry first few hours, too.
—Well, why don’t you tell him that? I nearly yelled. I glanced around but didn’t see Ravi anywhere. —He’s blaming it all on Karsh.
—I doubt he’s in a receptive mood at the moment. Anyway, if anyone, Mallika should tell him.
—Those songs, that set always works so well in New York, Karsh said, shaking his head.
—You’re in India now, Shy replied. —And must partake in the Indian dream … even if America is at the heart of some of it.
The Reeboks, the Levi’s I’d seen all over Bandra the other night. The Domino’s Pizza delivery motor
cyles; the Subway sandwich shop with free valet parking. A flashback of focaccia-flooded bread baskets somewhere.
And not a roti in sight to save your life. Shy had a point. I wondered if Ravi picked up this sentiment from her, or if it was common knowledge around these parts.
—India. America. It doesn’t matter where we are from, Gokulanandini remarked sagely. —We drew the borders ourselves; we can erase them with love. Love. The great eraser. After all, earth viewed from space is just a beautiful blue ball….
—I wish I were in space, then, Karsh lamented. —I mean, New York burnt me out, so I came here for a spark. The UK hasn’t been home since forever. And now, I’ve just blown Bombay.
—You are a citizen of the world, Gokulanandini concluded serenely.
—What’s the point? If no one in the world will have me …
I’d never seen him quite like this, even in those months after he’d gotten word about his father. Such downcast eyes — as if he were teetering on the edge of the earth when the earth was flat.
You have me, I thought. But for the first time, it felt a small succor, given the circumstances and how tuned in to everyone else he was. The dead air thickened; I could almost see him sealing off from me.
And then Shailly stepped through that wall, both arms around Karsh, forehead tipped to his forehead, eyes locking his into hers with a near gravitational pull.
—I’d have you, she said quietly. She must have meant at Crosstreet, perhaps. But he gazed at her with such gratitude, it was painful. For it was a regard I recognized — one he’d cast my way many a time when I’d handed him precisely the right words, the perfect silence during a low moment. Hadn’t the dolorous murk of months after his father’s passing been all about that?
But now it was aimed at her, and my heart tightened around this view.
Bombay Blues Page 18
