after.
But her mother didn’t need to know that, not for another four-five months at least.
Kings Cross Station was teeming with weekend traffic; people were scurrying off in multiple directions like army of ants before the winter, with great haste and purpose. She wondered if Jeff, her cameraman/man Friday/out-and-out magician, was already on the train. Aasha was sure Jeff was over the moon with this assignment.
The Edinburg Music Festival was showcasing a record number of South Asian artistes this year, which is why Aasha was on assignment. She’d be interviewing the artistes, the organizer and the fans for a special segment for South Asia Hour. It actually sounded like fun. Besides she had met some of the acts before, in previous interviews, and seeing them again would be enjoyable, she thought as she scrambled on to the train looking for her seat.
“Oi! About time!” Jeff called out as he shifted inwards towards the window seat. During one of their earliest assignments, Aasha had casually mentioned her preference for the aisle seat. Since then Jeff always slid in without complain or comment, despite his gangly frame. She loved him for it.
Jeff had a good ten years on her, but he had a much younger heart. His wild blond hair and his slightly glazed-over brown eyes that always had a ridiculous story, or adventure as he like to call it, to share. He had done more and seen more than most people. He had spent his early career chasing gritty crime stories, including the infamous Richardson Double Murder, where two teenage girls were brutally murdered by one of their uncles. The story had been the biggest of his career but it also changed something for him.
He could no longer stomach stories of human depravity and suffering. He drifted towards more peaceful and beautiful ventures – the arts, creativity, even sport when possible. It was during this time in his life that he teamed up with an inexperienced Aasha for a couple of South Asia Hour episodes – those were episodes that Aasha truly enjoyed shooting.
Aasha stashed her bags away and pulled out a purple cardigan and a paperback, merely grunting in greeting.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still sulking over that spying story. You shouldn’t be.” He said with great authority.
“I’m not sulking. I am pissed. There is a difference. Besides even if I were sulking, you’d not have one decent reason to get me to stop.”
“I would too,” he began ticking off reasons on his fingers. “For one, this way you’ll actually get to see the sun, and trust me, love, you need to catch some of them golden rays. Not everyone is as lucky as I am to be perfectly coloured all year round.” It was a feeble joke but she cracked a smile, and that was enough for Jeff.
“Second, this is a neat gig. It might not be the assignment you wanted, but it’s much better than a lot of things you’ve done,” he continued. “And finally, and pay close attention to this, because this right here is a life lesson my dear: music is always better than politics. And foreign music is always better than foreign politics. Always.”
Edinburg was enjoying a good summer. The sun was boisterous, even generous, shining on for hours at a stretch without a hint of rain overhead. It was the kind of weather that encouraged girls to wear something small and pretty and the boys to put on a pair of shorts and dress them up with flip-flops.
Aasha walked past shop windows that were decked up with potted peonies and daisies, a riot of pink, yellow and white. There was a hint of music and poetry floating in the air, tickling her nostrils and caressing her hair. Despite her earlier irritation, she could feel herself relax; by the end of the assignment, she knew she’d fall in love with this place.
“This is a big deal,” Jenny had mentioned at the briefing as she distributed the festival programme, the same one she had presented to Aasha in the pink-purple folder. Jeff reached forward to grab it, as did Subir, her co-anchor on the show, passing copies along to the show director, Mandy, and coordinator, Feroz.
“It’s the first time the festival is hosting such a large South Asian contingent. I thought it deserved a showcase – maybe even the whole hour dedicated to the festival; something on the lines of a behind-the-scenes or a making-of-the-festival kind of a segment, but with a South Asian angle for our viewers.
Subir and Feroz will handle the back end, here. Source the music, talk to the music companies, scour iTunes, find any interesting backstories you can. Aasha and Jeff will get the footage we need. Talk to the organizers, artistes, fans, anyone else who’s relevant. Make it interesting. Make it impressive.
Any questions?”
Aasha checked into her spacious room at The Caley. Jenny obviously knew how to bribe her employees in style, Aasha thought as she took in the sweeping view of the Edinburg Castle from her little balcony. With the sun tucked behind a turret, it threw a soft golden aura around the structure, giving it a touch of magic and mystery. It reminded her of the stories she’d read as a kid; they usually involved faraway mythical kingdoms, impossible quests, and impossibly brave heroes.
Aasha took a deep breath and held on to the intricately carved wrought iron railings of the balcony. The soft late morning breeze ran through her silky black hair and danced around. She allowed herself a small smile as she stood still. Everything about this place was reeling her in – the view outside, the large, warm tub (with pretty smelling bubbles and prettier candles) inside. What was a girl to do but give in?
As Aasha stepped into the bubbling warmth, she felt her body instantly relax; the knots that had developed over the last four days were slowly dissolving in this peppermint and vanilla concoction. She let her head rest against the tub and closed her eyes; she had a couple of hours to herself and she was going to make the most of them.
Aasha was not particularly gifted when it came to music, and like many things in her life the blame lay squarely with her parents. As a kid, Aasha was made to stand at gatherings and sing or recite poems she had learned in school or Indian ones her father taught her – poems no adult understood or cared for.
“Aasha, beta, come sing Aunty a song!” her parents would urge with great enthusiasm. “Aasha, beta, recite that poem you learned last week for Uncle!”
There she stood in her frilly, stiff frock, with a neat bow behind, her hands clasped together, singing Bollywood hits, or reciting ancient poems, in front of an indifferent crowd. After each rendition, the adults who were polite enough to pay attention doled out fake praise, even as they secretly hoped the pushy Punjabi mother would call off the cute croaking child. Others, less polite but more honest, stared at her with lingering distaste, like she was chutney gone bad.
Aasha hated it. As she got older, she promised herself she’d have nothing to do with music or poetry, even if her life depended on it.
Her parents never saw it that way though. They spent a great amount of time and energy recording each performance.
“When Aasha has a family of her own, we will show them what a talent she was! Look at the applause she is getting”
“Haan bhai, even Mrs. Sharma was saying our Aasha is a most gifted child, and everyone knows Mrs. Sharma doesn’t give compliments like that easily.”
The videotapes had accumulated in a dusty box for years. In fact at one point, so much time had lapsed since the tapes were mentioned, Aasha dared to believe they were well-forgotten. That was till the day her brother came totting about a bunch of converted-from-VCRs CDs.
“Don’t you worry, beta, we’ll never let your childhood ka talent go to waste,” her father said with great pride. “I arranged for all those old tapes to be converted. Now we can watch them whenever we feel like. Which one should we start with? Aasha? Beta,