When Only Love Remains (6 page)

The seat belt sign is on and the captain makes the announcement over the grainy PA system in his monotonous voice:

‘This is flight 6EG 787 and we are flying from Delhi to Chennai today. In the cockpit are Captain Saurabh Mittal and Co-captain Tarun Dalal. The cabin crew comprises Bhavya Dabas, Guneet Kaur, Avanti Bannerjee and Taruna Seth. The flight will take two hours and thirty minutes to reach Chennai. We hope you will enjoy flying with us. Thank you.’

Soon after, the seniormost attendant asks the passengers to watch and listen to the instructions on the screens attached at the back of every seat. Avanti thanks God for the screens (this is one of the new aircraft) as she is not expected to stand in the galley and explain to people how to put on their seat belts and what to do during emergencies or lack of oxygen. It’s not that it’s embarrassing but often while practising it in the training college, Avanti felt like breaking out in a little dance while doing it. Or at least wiggle her waist a little and do a little belly dance. Then, she thinks, people will look. It should be actually a pre-flight dance. It’s no joke, it could actually save lives.

Click. Click. Click. Seat belts snap all around her as walks up and down the aisle and makes sure people fasten their seat belts. The young boys blush while she tells them how to buckle it. The men leer. The women curse under their breath and they clutch on to their husbands tighter. ‘God! We’re not here to snatch your husbands! It’s not as if they are any desirable,’ she thinks.

The aircraft is lined on the tarmac and it’s the second in line to take off. This is the part Avanti loves the most. She is sure she will be bored of it after a few flights but right now, she looks forward to it.

‘What were you doing there?’ one of the flight attendants remarked.

‘Huh?’

‘Why were you talking to everyone, Avanti?’

‘Umm . . . because they were talking to me?’

The girl rolls her eyes. ‘You don’t do that. You just smile, help them and move on.’

‘But why?’

‘Why? Because it’s draining! And you talk to one, and then suddenly everyone wants to talk to you!’ complains the girl.

‘So what’s wrong in that?’

‘You get drained.’

‘I’m okay for now,’ says Avanti and smiles at her.

‘You are, but don’t make them feel like they can talk to anyone. I’m not going to do that,’ says the girl and makes a face as if the passengers are like cattle. Stay as far away from them as possible; just make sure they land alive.

Five minutes later, the metal cage is up in the sky and people have already started unsnapping their seat belts and getting out of their seats to visit the washroom.

‘What do you do if a newly married couple tries to enter the washroom?’ asks Avanti, rubbing her hands in obvious delight.

‘We don’t allow them,’ comes the answer from one of them.

‘That’s boring,’ says Avanti. ‘I heard from somewhere that at Virgin Atlantic they used to give such couples champagne and cigarettes. That’s pretty cool, right?’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere?’ says Avanti, trying to dig her brain for that conversation where this might have come up. It’s a useless pursuit. She has had ten billion conversations just today.

Lights are up on the main passenger panel, which means people have started pushing the buttons to call the flight attendants. The first half an hour passes in running around. The flight attendants are blamed for everything, and one of her colleagues is just short of telling them that she didn’t make the aircraft by hand and she really doesn’t know how to make the screen work! But not Avanti, who’s gliding from one seat to another, sometimes talking to a Sardarji about his petulant teenage daughters to solving the love life of a pesky thirteen-year-old.

A couple of hours later, the flight lands and the scene inside the aircraft suddenly changes to a rickety Rajdhani where everyone is trying to get off the aircraft first. Avanti slumps into a seat, tired and a little thankful that the flight is over.

Just then the senior attendant walks up and says, ‘Just halfway through, kid. Don’t screw up. Your service was slow and you need to know who you are talking to and who deserves being talked to. You can’t just go about talking to everyone. They are passengers, not your friends. Now, clean up the aisle. We have fifteen minutes to go.’

She feels she would die. Her feet are hurting and so is her back. She is exhausted from running up and down the aisle.

The passengers are again waiting at the step ladder the minute the four of them are done running checks again. Another three hours of exhaustion. Avanti braces herself, her forearms strain, and her calves make their pain known. She reminds herself that she doesn’t necessarily need to talk to everyone on the flight but that invariably happens.

Four hours later, she collapses on her bed after putting Devrat’s new songs on a loop on the speaker, hoping she would dream of him. She can’t wait for the new song to release. Shekhar calls her phone twice, but the calls go answered. She looks at the missed calls on her phone, half-sleepy, and mutters, ‘You’re an asshole.’

Being successful doing music in India, especially Indian music, doesn’t compare to being successful in other careers. The cash flow is irregular and uncertain, the public is fickle, and the tastes in music change like the direction of the wind. Most independent musicians know this and try to do as many live shows as possible while they are still on top. People talk of musicians over-exposing themselves and eventually dying out because of it, but they are not naïve and know that people will move on eventually.

Sumit has been trying to make Devrat understand this for a long time but hadn’t been able to crack through Devrat’s strong and stubborn skull. As a rule, poorer musicians are more uptight about ideals than the ones making money. So, do riches corrupt ideals? Or you have to be corrupt inherently to be rich?

Devrat smokes a cigarette and watches while his friend Karishma cleans up his flat. Three months have passed since the last time he saw Karishma and Devrat is not sure whether he is happy to see her. Karishma was the root of all evil, his wingman for the night he met Arundhati.

‘When was the last time you talked to her?’ Devrat asks and Karishma doesn’t answer the question. She starts to separate the clothes she thinks are dirty from the clean ones and ends up with just one pile of dirty clothes.

‘Didn’t you just say that you’re over her? That you were in a Zen state and you really don’t care about her? And do you have a maid? Or a washing machine? What do you do for clothes?’ she asks.

‘Dry-clean,’ he says.

‘Perfect,’ she says sarcastically and gathers the clothes in a bedsheet, tying up the edges when they are all in. She leaves the room and comes back after fifteen minutes. ‘The washerwoman will come with your clothes tomorrow. I have talked to her and she will pick your clothes every Sunday from now on. Don’t miss her!’

Devrat nods. ‘I hope you know I change my flats every three weeks.’

Fuck you, says Karishma’s face. ‘I have no idea how you live in a mess like this? It’s horrible,’ she says and washes her hands.

‘You should have seen how clean the flat was when I was dating her,’ snaps back Devrat.

‘Oh shut up. I think you like being depressed,’ argues Karishma. ‘Adds to the whole mysterious musician shit. But let me tell you it gets boring pretty fast.’

The flat looks quite bare now. The used utensils are in the racks, the clothes are missing, and the shoes are stacked in a clean line near the door.

‘Hey. I have a performance tonight at Green Frog, do you want to come?’ he asks.

‘Sure, I will come! But, Green Frog, that’s awesome. Going places, eh?’ she mocks. ‘Do you want to order something? I am hungry as hell. And oh! Karan says hi.’

‘Ask him to fuck off,’ says Devrat.

‘Why do you hate him so much?’

‘He snatched my best friend away from me. You would be here every second day earlier and look at you now. That fancy guy with an MBA degree and a tie around his neck wrested you away from me!’

‘Oh please,’ snaps back Karishma. ‘You were too busy with your depression to give a shit about me.’

‘Did you know you kind of look cute when you’re angry?’ asks Devrat.

‘It’s been ten years that we’ve known each other and your lines haven’t ever worked on me,’ says Karishma.

‘They were never meant to. If I wanted those lines to work, they would have probably worked.’

‘Blah.’

And that was right. Devrat had literally seen Karishma shave her hairy legs. Like hairy legs. Like when the hair on your legs becomes long and they curl. Once you see that you can’t go back. You can’t fall in love with the girl ever again. Though Karishma was kind of cute. Small. Petite. Full lips. Big eyes. And a really cute face made of cupcakes, candy and smiles of little puppies.

‘The pizza place’s number is in my phone. Call them,’ Devrat says and throws his phone at her. She orders a pizza with minimal cheese and a lot of toppings, most of them vegetarian and none of which excites Devrat.

‘So how much are they paying you? Green Frog?’ she asks.

‘Not much. I am not doing a whole show, just a couple of songs. The owner’s girlfriend heard me play somewhere and asked for me. So, I am not really wanted there. It’s just a demanding girlfriend. Otherwise there is a techno-house band, Fried Jalebies, that’s playing there,’ Devrat smirks.

‘I see. You still don’t like dance music,’ she laughs.

‘I don’t have a problem with it,’ he says and lights up the first joint. ‘Just that . . .’

‘You can’t dance.’

‘Yeah. Whatever.’

‘Are your parents happy now with what you’re doing?’

‘My mom is okay with it. A little concerned, but my father still thinks I will give it all up and go back to college.’

‘And will you?’ asks Karishma.

‘I will try not to, but if nothing works out, I will have to,’ says Devrat.

‘It will work out.’

‘From where I stand, it doesn’t look like it will,’ sighs Devrat.

‘Stop being so negative all the time!’ snaps Karishma. ‘You’re performing at Green Frog. That means something, right?’

‘But not alone.’

‘Forget it,’ retorts Karishma.

Devrat lights a cigarette.

‘Can you smoke after I’m gone?’ she begs. He complies and extinguishes the cigarette against a wall. ‘Now tell me. When are you going to start dating again? I have many single friends. And I think some of them already like you.’

‘Do they know I smoke?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do they know my house looks like refugee camp?’

‘I don’t think they care.’

‘Do they know that I would look for Arundhati in them? Do they know that she’s going to come back one day? Do they know that once she does I’m going to tell her that I don’t need her? Do they know I talk like this?’

‘Not yet.’ Karishma rolls her eyes and throws a pillow at him. ‘You need to be over her. Aren’t people like you always buried in women?’

‘Not if you don’t want to.’

‘And why do you not want to?’ Karishma’s tone is almost begging. Like it’s her responsibility that Devrat is alone and depressed and is not getting any action.

‘You need to stop trying to get me with someone. Last time wasn’t that good. Oh! Is this why you’re trying so hard? You’re guilty?’

Karishma looks at her feet. ‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t need to do that!’ exclaims Devrat.

‘Seriously,’ he continues, ‘It’s not that bad. Like today, I almost didn’t check Arundhati’s profile. And that’s new! I’m getting better. But I doubt that someone’s going to take Arundhati’s place in the near future.’

‘I’m happy for you then.’

The doorbell rings. It’s the pizza guy. Karishma reaches out for her handbag but Devrat gets the door. He says, ‘I can pay. For now at least.’ A little later, Devrat has to leave for his recording, his first ever legitimate recording for a YouTube channel.

‘You’re not as big a failure as you make yourself out to be,’ says Karishma while leaving.

‘Maybe you’re right. I do have about twenty fans in Dehradun!’ quips Devrat.

‘Eh?’

‘You won’t get it,’ says Devrat.

~

‘Are you are telling us that NOW? And who’s this Karthika? Ask her to wrap up quickly. Devrat can’t wait that long,’ shouts Sumit on the phone. He’s uncharacteristically aggressive. The recording studio Devrat is supposed to record in has pushed his recording an hour for the previous singer, Karthika, who is taking a little bit long.

Devrat gestures at him to calm down and Sumit smiles at him. Once he’s done with the call, he tells Devrat, ‘You have to throw your weight around. Artiste tantrums are also the reason why artistes become stars. Once everyone talks about the fit you threw they will think you deserved to throw a tantrum.’

‘That weirdly makes sense to me. You’re corrupting me, Sumit,’ says Devrat and lights a cigarette. ‘Sometimes I think I was better off studying mechanics of solids and worrying about end semesters.’

‘You will be the most famous twenty-one-year-old musician in the country. That sure beats mechanics of solids,’ says Sumit. ‘And keep the smoke out of my clothes!’

Devrat checks his phone. He’s moved on from his archaic Nokia and has a new phone in his hands. He was told by Karishma that it has a lot of applications and is fun to play around with it, but he doesn’t know what to do with it. He sure wishes Arundhati likes another picture, or mails him, anything that gives him a sign that she’s not happy and she would be back with him soon enough. And that’s when he doesn’t even want her anymore. It’s just revenge now. He wants her just to show that she wants him.

He swipes across left, then right, and then locks the screen; he admits to himself that Candy Crush is pretty addictive and Temple Run is kind of good.

He checks his Facebook profile. There are people from his college congratulating him for whatever he’s doing, people he didn’t really talk to when he was with them, and Devrat is thinking that maybe they are little jealous of him, maybe there are wishing that his music thing is short-lived. Devrat, too, is scared about that. The student Devrat always keeps reminding the musician Devrat of that. The opportunity cost of trying to be a musician is high. He has already lost a couple of years, a girlfriend, and a little bit of his sanity.

He updates his profile,
‘Going to the studio to record a new song. Excited!’

Within seconds it’s liked by a few people, the first of whom is a girl called Avanti. Usually, he wouldn’t check anyone’s profile but the phone’s new and expensive and it’s uselessness is making him feel guilty about buying it. He swipes to her profile and sees the thumbnail picture of the girl who looks kind of pretty and out of Devrat’s league.

‘Hey!’ shrieks Sumit.

Devrat is startled and he closes the application, as if he was caught watching porn. ‘What!’

‘You just updated your status. That’s the way to go! Social media and all that, connecting and engaging with fans! Who’s profile were you on? She looked pretty!’ exclaims Sumit.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

They reach the recording studio after a brief stopover at a roadside stall for a quick meal. Sumit tells Devrat he would soon have to stop doing this, because after he records this song, and he shoots the video, and the video goes viral on YouTube, he would be mobbed.

‘Who’s the last person with whom this happened?’ asks Devrat nonchalantly.

After thinking for about fifteen minutes during which Devrat played the same level of Candy Crush over and over again, Sumit answers, ‘Justin Bieber!’

‘Exactly my point,’ says Devrat, fully knowing that video and the song would sink without a trace. Who cares about pop/rock songs anywhere? Most independent singers spend their lives singing hit Bollywood songs on garbha nights, or worse, record devotional songs on their tunes.

They are in the waiting room when the owner of the studio walks in and apologizes for the delay. He tells Devrat and Sumit that they can wait in the recording room if they want to. Devrat says a ‘why not’ and they walk into the heavily insulated recording room. There are two sound technicians working and they look back and acknowledge Sumit. Handshakes are exchanged.

‘Should we give it another try?’ the sound in the recording room booms.

The technicians look in the direction of the glass window that separates the singer from them. It’s a girl, more like a woman. She’s looking at the lyrics sheet in front of her and mouthing the lyrics. She has wild, frizzy hair and is slightly on the plump side. She looks like a younger and a better-looking version of Usha Uthup with tattoos on her forearms.

He knows her from earlier, having seen her on quite a few posters of cultural fests of colleges across India, and was at one point quite jealous of her, not only of her multiple gigs but also of her voice.

‘She charges a lakh and a half for a performance,’ whispers Sumit in Devrat’s ear. ‘Though you’re much better than her. She’s old now. She was awesome when she was young. People say a lot of things about her these days. That you know . . .’

‘Not interested.’

‘I was just saying that she sleeps around.’

‘Did I not say I wasn’t interested in knowing about her?’

‘Okay! Fine. Hey, listen. I need to go somewhere and wrap up some work. You’re sure you will manage?’ asks Sumit. Devrat nods and Sumit leaves the recording studio. Devrat sits on a small chair and listens to her sing. He mindlessly opens the application again on his phone. He swipes through the pictures as he listens to Karthika sing. The girl’s beautiful, the one on his phone. She’s from Dehradun as well. He wonders if the girl is one of those twenty people who mail him every few days. He tries remembering the name, Avanti, though he knows he will forget it again for he has always been bad with names and he still doesn’t know half of his cousins’ real names. He closes the application and finds himself daydreaming about a situation when Arundhati sees him with a girl, this girl from Facebook, who’s clearly hotter than she is. That would surely have her begging Devrat to take her back but Devrat would just smirk, move on, and write a song about it. He’s jerked out of his reverie by a high note that Karthika just hit.