When Only Love Remains Page 6

  ‘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.

  Karthika is a stickler for perfection and does some lines a dozen times over, and each time it’s better than the last time, quite different from what Devrat does—he sings it once and lets it go with the imperfections.

  The song is finally over. Karthika leaves the recording room, still grumbling over the few notes that she hit wrong. It’s Devrat’s turn next.

  The technicians get up, their backs aching, their ears sore. ‘Do you mind if we smoke and come back?’

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ asks Devrat and they walk to the balcony of the studio and light up. There is silence, a silence that only fellow smokers can enjoy, something that makes no sense to people who don’t smoke. And that silence is broken when Karthika walks in, with her creeper-like hair and her unabashed enthusiasm. ‘And that was a fuck-all song and a fuck-all recording session! There’s no way that’s going viral. People are going to shit all over the song and forget it. I will have to pull a Poonam Pandey to get views on that song,’ growls Karthika as she wrests a cigarette from one of the recording guys and takes a long drag. With the amount of cleavage that’s on display right now, she’s already pulling a half Poonam Pandey.

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ says the guy. ‘At least better than the last time when you threw a chair through that window after singing a “fuck-all” song that got a hundred thousand views.’

  ‘Still doesn’t change the fact that today was just horrible. Horrible,’ says Karthika and takes a long drag. ‘And hi! You’re Devrat, I suppose. I have heard a little about you. The mysterious, non-available singer. Nice marketing technique to get the demand up. I don’t agree with it, but still, good effort.’

  Truth be told, Devrat’s a little intimidated now. He had never done well with women who are older, more accomplished. Not that he’s an MCP but all the women he has been around with are docile women, so when someone like Karthika comes around, he feels a little overpowered, less of man, and he’s not particularly proud of that.

  ‘How old are you? Seventeen?’ asks Karthika.

  ‘I’m twenty-one,’ corrects Devrat, and immediately thinks that ‘I’m eight’ would have sounded equally childish.

  ‘I’m thirty-two,’ says Karthika.

  Shit. Thirty-two!

  ‘How long have you been in this . . . industry?’

  ‘Feels like forever,’ says Karthika. ‘Best of luck for your recording. Who are you recording it for?’

  ‘A small YouTube channel. They wanted me to sing for them. Sumit arranged for it,’ answers Devrat.

  ‘Shall we record the song now?’ one the technicians asks.

  ‘Sure,’ says Devrat. Karthika follows them inside. She asks Devrat if he minds her staying in the recording room and he says he doesn’t.

  Devrat goes to the room meant for singers, places his lyrics sheet in front of him, and puts on the headphones. As usual, he will be trying to knock the song out of the park in one go and not give it multiple shots like Karthika did. The music is on and he starts to sing. He stumbles on a few lines in the lyrics department, and has to repeat them, but other than that, it’s perfect. In and out in half an hour. During the entire duration of the recording, he tries steadfastly to not look at Karthika. He would have dealt with Karthika with ease had this performance been in a club, had he been a little drunk, had he been a little baked out of his head, but when sane, he doesn’t do well when being judged.

  He comes to the recording room and asks the guys. ‘How was it?’

  ‘Awesome, bro!’ says one.

 
‘You killed it,’ says another.

  ‘It wasn’t good at all, but they will obviously not say that. It makes their lives easier. You book them for two hours and then finish in forty minutes!’ says Karthika. ‘Work shirkers, all of them. Fuck you.’

  ‘Oho, Karthika—’

  They start to protest but Karthika asks them to shut up and asks Devrat where he lives, and Devrat tells her, and she asks if he needs to be dropped home. Devrat nods. Karthika doesn’t slip into conversations, she bulldozes into them.

  Minutes later, they are in her car, a decent Honda City, the older model, bought secondhand from a fan. A fan who later became a boyfriend, who wasn’t even good in bed and Karthika tells him that it was a little creepy because they would only fuck when she sang. ‘Could be harder than you think it is,’ says Karthika and laughs throatily. Her mouth’s open wide enough to fit a few children in. Karthika’s a little disgusting and emasculating but there’s something strangely sexy about her. She’s a like a sexy, pointy-nosed witch.

  ‘Don’t you feel bad about the song you just sang inside?’ asks Karthika.

  ‘Why would I feel bad about it?’ asks Devrat.

  ‘You know . . . it . . . just wasn’t as good. You could have sung a few lines differently than you did. And it would be a much better song,’ says Karthika.

  ‘It doesn’t work for me like that,’ says Devrat.

  ‘You’re cheating your listeners. You should give it the best you can,’ snaps Karthika. ‘Like I do.’

  Devrat is not sure whether he’s attracted to this opinionated older woman, or he’s repulsed. ‘I don’t think it works like that for me. It’s not like any other product that the best notes work the best,’ says Devrat. ‘If I try to sing every note the best I can, I end up losing the emotion behind the word and I start to concentrate on the singing more.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise! You’re a singer, and you’re supposed to concentrate on that,’ mocks Karthika.

  ‘Maybe. Here, right,’ says Devrat. ‘Here’s where I stay.’