had spent the rest of the evening staring at a painting of old Lahore that his parents had given him before he moved to London. The watercolour, a replica of a painting by Dr. Anwar, portrayed a typical Lahore bazaar. The grand old structures stood stoically as Lahore’s chaos unravelled below them – tongas, cycles, rickshaws, strays, men, women, children, wares, fruits, stalls, all managed to squeeze into the frame. Aman barely remembered what that life had been like. They had returned to Lahore only once – to see his Badi Ammi, his aunt, who had stage four lung cancer. He only remembered flashes now, and what he saw in the movies, or what he heard from his parents.
He remembered the rickshaws and their motors that sounded so much like farts; he remembered walking through a crowded market, clutching his mother’s hand with an iron grip; he remembered colours, bright ones like orange and green; he remembered aromas of foods he had now forgotten; he remembered running around barefoot with cousins and friends; he remembered eating mangoes. But that was all. He wondered where they’d all be, where he’d be, if they had never left.
The words had stung Aman. Of course, he had been prepared for a parental showdown, but there had been a tiny part of him that remained hopeful of convincing them. That hadn’t happened.
His music was a representation of his story – it was Pakistani and it was Western. No one part could stand alone without the other. He was a sum of two identities, and like him his music was a little bit Sufi and a little bit Jazz, and the two styles did amazing things together. He was unsure of mainstream success, but he knew there were pockets, particularly those with connections to the Indian Subcontinent, that would understand and appreciate his music.
So far he was doing well for himself. He was constantly performing, drawing a bigger and more diverse crowd than he had accounted for. His growing success had also eased the tension between him and the family. After his parents heard his music, and were reassured that he’d never be a busker, they had relented. A fragile peace process was underway, and he was determined to fix things between them, fix them without having to sacrifice the only passion he had.
Aman picked up a bottle of water as he made his way to the vanity van, draining it all in one go. He should have picked up another one, he thought as he discarded the empty one into a rubbish bin. It was a cool evening but he was soaked to the bone. His shirt was stuck to his back and his brow was dripping.
“That was great man!” Dominic, his festival man Friday, said falling into step with Aman. He magically produced another chilled bottle of water. “Here, drink up. You need to keep hydrating at gigs like this. That’s the secret: hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.”
“It was. It felt great. What a crazy rush!”
“You bet. Now drink.” Dominic had attached himself to Aman since he arrived in Edinburg four days ago. It was his job of course, but Dominic had taken a bit of getting used to. The man was a ball of energy, launching into conversation right off the bat.
“I’ve been assigned to you, mate. Get used to this ugly mug. Where you go, I go. What you need, I’ll get, or try to get. I’m the last thing you’ll see at night and the first every morning. Well, almost. But yeah.”
It hadn’t been love at first sight for the two: the first day Aman wanted to punch the chatty and obnoxious Dominic in the face, maybe take out the nose and a couple of teeth with it; the second day they got drunk at The Headless Horseman, a corner pub because alcohol was the only way Aman could tolerate Dominic’s non-stop energy. He wished to God the man had a pause button. On the third day Dominic brought along a miracle hangover cure, a secret family recipe, and became a friend for life.
Right now he was very glad for Dominic’s presence. It meant there was someone to make the decisions and issue instructions. All he had to do was follow. The adrenalin from his back-to-back performances was now wearing off and the exhaustion, a by-product of the anxiety and pressure leading up to them, was finally beginning to creep up on him, crawling up from his toes, to his knees, to his hip bone, his ribs and finally anchoring on his shoulders.
Hopefully those directions led him to a plate of hot food – what he would do for a mutton biryani right now – followed by a warm bed with extra-fluffy cushions. Surely Dominic could arrange for something similar. Hell, Aman would settle for a juicy burger and an armchair right now.
“It should last about thirty minutes, not more,” Dominic’s deep voice pulled Aman out of his own head and back into the present.
“I have the questions here, so you can go through them before the reporter arrives. You think …”
“What?” Aman interrupted Dominic. Having missed the first part of the conversation, his face scrunched up in complete confusion, “What are you talking about?”
“The interview … your interview with South Asia Hour”
“Interview … right now?” Aman was feeling a mix of excitement – he still had to get used to the whole giving interviews process, and absolute exhaustion, as he walked into his vanity van.
He placed his guitar on the table, securing the rich brown leather strap well behind the edge so that it wasn’t dangling. As he made towards the armchair on the other side, he pulled off his sweat-soaked black shirt and tossed it on the floor, before sinking into the soft cushioned armchair.
“I’m wiped out man. Can’t we push it a little bit? Let me take a quick nap and we’ll go in an hour.”
“There’s no time later buddy. I’m sorry. If you want, I’ll buy you fifteen more minutes to freshen up. But that’s it.”
“Fine,” Aman sighed. His legs felt like jelly at the moment and it was a struggle to just put on a fresh T-shirt. Once he was dressed, he reached for an apple on the table and took a big juicy bite.
“Think I can get some real food before this thing?” he asked. His last meal had been a masala omelette (with extra tomatoes and a side of grilled mushrooms) earlier that morning; he had skipped lunch, thanks to a nervous stomach, which meant there was a hungry old lion growling and snarling in his belly right now.
But all the lion got was a lean turkey and lettuce sandwich, and a Coke – a far cry from the biryani he was craving.
“You better not be mumbling at me in foreign,” Dominic said when he caught Aman cursing under his breath.” I could have bought you a breakfast bar. Or a tofu burger. Be grateful.”
“It’s Punjabi, and if you ever bother bringing me that healthy crap, I will have to poison that little flask that is so poorly hidden in your coat pocket.” Dominic simply offered Aman a wide grin in return. He patted his right pocket, just to make sure it was safe, before he urged Aman to finish up.
“So where is this interview set up?” Aman asked over the last mouthful; he set about inhaling every last crumb clinging to the plastic wrap. Aman was still hungry. He was still exhausted. And he was about to give his first major interview. This would either go really, really well, or it was going to blow up in his face.
“We’re doing it at a cafe across the street. It’s a nice setting and if we’re lucky some people might even recognize you from earlier today. A little fan action never hurt anybody.”
Aasha was trying to stay calm, but tiny tendrils of anger still managed to escape through her I-am-a-professional-facade causing her to grind her teeth or sigh audibly at regular intervals. Her right leg was constantly bobbing up and down; even her fingers betrayed her with their jumpy drumming on the tabletop. So forceful was her drumming at one time, she even managed to knock down the two empty coffee cups on the table.
Looking around, past the cafe porch and towards the street, it was a nice evening. The street was abuzz with creative energy. Most people were either trouping in or out of a performance. They wore bright smiles and even brighter eyes. Their chatter was mostly musical. It made Aasha envious.
She