Deprecated: __autoload() is deprecated, use spl_autoload_register() instead in /home4/meraqissa/public_html/mailer/PHPMailerAutoload.php on line 45

Deprecated: __autoload() is deprecated, use spl_autoload_register() instead in /home4/meraqissa/public_html/mailer/PHPMailerAutoload.php on line 45

Deprecated: __autoload() is deprecated, use spl_autoload_register() instead in /home4/meraqissa/public_html/mailer/PHPMailerAutoload.php on line 45

Deprecated: __autoload() is deprecated, use spl_autoload_register() instead in /home4/meraqissa/public_html/mailer/PHPMailerAutoload.php on line 45

 

Four Broken Strings

 

A Novel by

Rubab Masuri

 

 

Daastan Publishing 2023

First Published in Pakistan by Daastan PVT LTD

House # A-41, Madni Street, Lala Rukh, Wah Cantt, Punjab 47040

 

www.daastan.com

www.meraqissa.com

 

Text copyrights © Zainab Mustansir

Cover design by Hamida Abdul Rauf

Beginning poetry artwork by Quratulain Binte Khalid

Ending poetry illustration from Freepik image

Map illustration from Freepik image

Edited by Sana Salman

Book design by Mariam Rizvi

 

The moral rights of the writer, illustrator and editor have been asserted.

 

All rights reserved

 

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

 

ISBN 978-969-696-914-3

 

 

It all starts

With a beginning

There is a beginning

To every beginning

But no one knows

The precise moment

Where it all began

 

 

December 2016

CHAPTER 1:

THE OPEN MIC

 

Hunched over in a corner by the pillar, I’m looking into my cell phone, while stealing glances at the patchy crowd in the arena, that's making its way towards the cafe. I'm being discreet; I've already spent the better part of my evening jamming with a band I didn't know, didn't like and didn't want to run into again.

I admit I shouldn't have said yes to the drummer boy—a skin-and-bones teenager—when he came to ask me if I wanted to play with their band. Convincing me along the lines that ‘it would be fun', and I even believed as much, until after a couple of minutes when it just kind of… stopped being fun.

I recall how the skinny boy, barely visible from behind the drums, smashed away with a look of sheer pleasure. The lead guitarist with expensive shoes was ahead of everyone, and seemingly bent on exhibiting all the skills he had ever learned in the past—today. The older guy on the synth, probably a late bloomer who found his true calling after some sort of middle-age crisis, nodded at me in consolation, like it would all be over soon. The real bummer was the guy clenching the mic and screaming about some obscure dream he’d had, which sadly turned out to be a nightmare for all of us there.

Open mics are supposed to be fun—more fun if I were part of a band, which I am not. More fun if I were a regular performer here and friends with the guy in the café, who would serve me complimentary drinks. More fun if I had purple hair with piercings all over my face, a fancy guitar and an attitude that said, piss off. So you can guess why I wasn't having the best time.

After the ‘performance’ is over, I unstrap my guitar and scurry away before anybody tries to engage me in small talk. The evening has already reached the height of awkwardness, even by my low standards.

After wasting the first hour, I am getting edgy. I search for Adam in the scattered crowds but can't find him and when the waiting starts to get unbearable, I dial his number. I have no idea why he was so cryptic in his message, but since he taught me everything I know about music, I trust him enough to know that whatever it is, tonight will be worth my time. It has been a while since I have seen him, but then, it has been a while since I did anything real or met anyone real; I sometimes feel like I exist in limbo, with nothing but time to pass me by. Most days I feel lethargic and gloomy, waiting for someone or something to tell me that my time is over and I can now disappear.

I swipe my phone and gaze at my photo on my screen lock; I feel slightly unsettled because my feelings are reflected on my face. My eyelids look heavy, like I haven’t slept in ages, when the truth is that I sleep too much these days, not during the night but at odd hours during the day. Then I cuss and complain when a ringing phone, a doorbell, or gleeful chirping birds disturb me. I notice that my lips, which I have always known to have a nice bow shape, are pulled downwards these days, for which I have no justification except that I feel hollow and sore, and probably all of that weighs my face down in discontent.

I need a miracle or a potion for an instant remedy, an elixir of happiness.

I dial his number and look up, trying to shake off my gloom, and spot Adam at the end of the room where the cafe is, holding a can of soda, and immersed in animated conversation with two other men. They find a table at the end of the hall. I amble towards the café, but I am hesitant to reach out. It might be that the men with Adam have a work thing going on and wouldn't want me at the table. I look at the phone, the seconds ticking by. Adam picks up and I disconnect the call. I can see him searching the crowd for me. I walk up to the table and Adam is smiling expectantly at me.

Penny! Adam greets me joyfully as I approach.

I didn't want to intrude, I say, half embarrassed and half defensive. I don't know why I am both.

Not at all, we were just talking about you, says a paunchy middle-aged guy with salt and pepper hair tied in a small ponytail. He adjusts his thick black spectacles at me and gestures towards the empty chair at this table for four—a dainty wooden design with an arched top rail. I have no idea how they are even holding up the men sitting here. We are cramped together and there is barely enough space for Emo, my guitar.

Seeing me struggle for space, the guy next to me offers to put Emo in the corner against the wall behind his chair, which he pulls out, shifting it closer to me; my protest that it may topple dies in my throat. Something stirs in me at the way he instinctively holds on to its neck for a moment, checking its balance before letting go. It feels strange, seeing someone else fussing about Emo. While he's at it, I size him up: handsome as per modern standards, tall, fair skin, hair too good to be on a man's scalp, nails trimmed and clean. His strong jawline and light eyes have a strangely compelling effect. I realize I’m staring and look away hastily. 

Hi, he says catching my eye, forcing me to respond, which I manage in spite of the strange lump in my throat. Embarrassed at my silliness, I say a polite ‘thank you’.

He is pretty well-dressed for a casual evening like this: crisp chambray under his leather jacket; I see that his clothes fit him to perfection.

I'm conscious of my own choice of clothing: a t-shirt with lemons on it; a denim jacket that does nothing to conceal it. I should’ve put on my new jeans or maybe some makeup. In moments like these, I feel I made the decision to marry in haste. I mean, I could have looked around a bit more before giving in and saying yes to Rafae. Though I’m not exactly sure I could have found a guy like this in my surroundings at that time—not that I could ever feel confident next to someone like him: I can feel my awkwardness like a tangible thing, hanging in the aura around me. He, on the other hand, has charm oozing out of him in spades.

We really liked you up there, the thick-black-spectacles guy says, rapping his ring on the table.

This brings me out of my head and the volume returns to the conversation.

A witness to my abysmal performance, I see. He seems intrigued. On second thought, maybe he is just being polite. I try to smile to show friendly gratitude, but it doesn't turn out the way I want and I end up saying, 'sure', instead of 'thank you'. I fidget with my hair and run my fingers through it needlessly.

Adam tells me you're one of his finest protégés, the thick-black-spectacles guy continues, with a hint of admiration in his tone.

Well, Adam's kind, I say, embarrassed.

I want someone to say something quickly; I'm getting uncomfortable being the focus of the conversation.

I’m Mashood Mudassir Sheikh, the thick-black-spectacles guy says in a crisp, professional kind of way—a tone of voice he must reserve for people he meets for the first time. After that, I am sure there must be a montage of crazy accents every time he talks.

Maddy, Adam continues, looking at me now. You can call him Maddy because you don't want the world to end trying to say his name, he jibes.

I chuckle lightly. Adam and his thing with long names; he never made a friend who persisted in sticking to more than two syllables. Nothing fetishist, just hard to remember, he would say. Fascinating how he could turn any name around.

With that thought, I turn to the other guy, the one who had my guitar behind his chair.

Kabir, he says and takes his hand out of his jacket pocket.

I don't know why but somehow I think he wants to shake my hand and we end up doing a clumsy handshake. His long fingers feel warm and comforting against my thin cold hand. He is a musician, I can tell.

Maddy needs musicians for a couple of gigs, Adam says, looking at Maddy, who takes the conversation forward.

We can hear you tomorrow at the studio if you have the time, he says, putting his cell phone down on the table and twisting one of his ear piercings. You seem to be a good fit, he adds.

A tryout, I mutter aloud. The men nod at me. I can feel my socks moistening with sweat. My problem: I am terrified of tryouts.

Possibly, I may have internalized a few rejections which left their marks on my soul. I get it that it's just business and people want the best game, and maybe I'm not the best game. I don't want to show this impossible side of me to Adam, who thinks the best for me. He's the only person who trusts my abilities as a musician. Which should make it two people—if I include myself as well. But I don't.

Nervous, and feeling like my hands lack purpose, I grab a water bottle needlessly and start tracing the marks on it with my thumb.

So you guys are... I say, trying to form a question, but I don't quite know what I am asking. Also, I think no one heard me because Kabir asks me a question instead: For how long have you been playing bass?

Since I was ten, I answer. Because I am sure having a Disney princess guitar doesn't count, the one I played when I was six.

Maddy and Adam are engrossed in a grave conversation.

He takes out a cigarette and asks me if I mind him smoking or if I'd like to join him.

Maybe another time. I don’t like blowing smoke on people’s faces.

That’s fair, he says. Then he asks me if I assist Adam at the workshop.

I tell him I do, but only in the summer. I was a summer student myself, I chuckle in recollection. I've known him since then. Almost ten years now.

I twist the cap of the water bottle and add, It’s not my thing really; I find teaching exhausting. It's fun when Adam's around, though. He knows how to engage me in a classroom.

What's your best style? He asks.

I don't know if it’s my best but I love playing jazz, and I experiment with everything. What about you?

I’m a sound engineer… and Maddy manages the business, he replies, including Maddy’s role in the business as an afterthought, thinking I’d want to know. He waits for me to ask more questions but I don't.

Maddy has ended the conversation with Adam and is now occupied with his phone, texting, tapping, swiping. He looks up and nods with a grunt.

I wish I could concentrate on the conversation at hand rather than sink into my thoughts. It isn't that I am not interested in what they do at the studio, but the guy next to me, Kabir, is making it almost impossible for me to focus. There is something about him—not just a handsome face, there is depth in his moonly eyes, lit but marred—his pauses; his shifts, while he stops to take a sip, a drag, smoke rising from the burning cigarette between his fingers, moving with each gesture; the moment he takes before starting to talk. A thinker, a worrier. A little cautious, a little prudent.

So, we'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Maddy says to me.

I turn in my chair.

Tomorrow? Actually, I won't… I have a thing tomorrow, I say hesitantly.

A thing is universal for nothing, everyone knows that.

His eyebrows contract as if he misheard me.

Right, he says. He expects more words from me, which I did plan to add. An explanation as to what ‘my thing’ is, or to express regret, or ask him if we can reschedule. But I take a too-long pause and now I am wondering if I should tell him that I have to go out of town for a few days. Anything that sounds plausible.

I try not to meet Adam’s gaze when I deliver the last lie.

Okay, when will you be back? Maddy asks.

Oh, there's no... Uh. I mean, we are visiting family so I have no idea how long I'd have to...

Both of them look at me, expressionless, not knowing what to make of this conversation. I certainly wasn’t helping.

The truth is that this sudden proposal has gutted me and I feel my intestines stirring inside me. There was a time when I would kill for an opportunity like this. But at the time, luck wasn't on my side and nothing worked out. Even though I've moved on, the rejections are still with me. Life has been stagnant for a couple of years and I've been so numb that I have stopped wishing for anything altogether. Sometimes in my more philosophical moods, even my rejections and failures have a cosmic meaning behind them. Other times I just cuss my guitar. Right now, I don't know if this should give me hope or if I should be prepared for yet another rejection.

Kabir takes out a business card from his wallet and hands it to me. Madock Studios, the card says, in steely silver letters, followed by his name and number. I clear my throat and steal a glance at him, ignoring my heart’s reaction to his smile. I feel a blush creeping up at my inanity.

It was nice meeting you, Penny, they say with genuine smiles and cordial handshakes.

I watch them until they are out of sight.

Adam is eyeing me and I have a feeling that I have failed him somehow. I want to thank him for looking out for me. Thank him for thinking about me and not anyone else for today's opportunity, and thank him for making me meet them and not telling me the night before, because of how well he knows me. I probably wouldn’t have shown up at all. I also want to apologize to him and tell him I lied about going out of town tomorrow—though he has probably guessed that by now.

What happened there? He asks.

You always look out for me, I say, staring at the water bottle on the table.

Is that a problem?

Yes. Because then I feel bad about letting you down.

Adam looks bewildered, like some men do when they can’t figure out what a woman is trying to say. He shakes his head slightly, to shrug off his thoughts and tells me, You can only guard yourself so much, Penny.

He’s being cool about a situation that is pounding hammers in my head. I am anxious and feel like my brain is in a vise.

He is right, though. I watch him, looking at the crowd in the café in mild dismay, like he found me this amazing producer and I am not even considering the possibility.

So how come I didn't know these friends of yours? I ask Adam, swiftly changing the topic, making him even more suspicious of my mood.

You don't know a lot of my friends, he smiles.

He's kind of cute, I say. The words just slip out before I can filter.

Do you want me to pass on the word?

Sure, I laugh, embarrassed. He automatically catches on that I am talking about Kabir. I flip my hair, trying to salvage my pride by treating it as a joke. Then I add: And while we’re at it, do you think he plucks his eyebrows? He looks like he spends a lot of time preening.

Penny, he says in his mock-disciplinary tone that he uses with me frequently, but there’s warmth in his eyes when he smiles. Then he looks at his watch and vacates his chair saying, I have to pick up Mrs. Peters from the sitter. It's already eleven.

I get up too.

Oh, the doggie. How is she? I say, feigning concern. The truth is, I've seen that dog maybe twice this year and couldn't even remember what she looked like until recently, when Adam posted a picture of her when she had gone missing. He found her after a day with a broken leg—poor thing.

Recovering, he says.

I'll come to see her, I say to him as we head out, suddenly feeling sympathetic towards the dog, for whom I initially had no liking.

Outside, cold winds slap our faces. I blink feverishly and fight hair off my face until vision is restored. Now that it is time to say goodbye, and we move in different directions towards our cars, I feel this strange mix of sadness and contentment. When I grip the steering wheel and shift gears, I feel like I’m leaving one world for another: the world where I really want to be, for the other world where existing seems like a farce, and requires so much effort.

❁❁❁

CHAPTER 2:

DOWN THE MEMORY LANE

 

I take a longer route home and pass by the music store from where I bought my first bass. I used to pass by the shop every day on my way back from school, in anticipation of the day when I would actually go inside to choose my guitar. I had decided on a name as well—I thought it was cool to name your instrument—so I named it Emo in my head, because up until then I had a basic acoustic, broken and with only four strings—probably still at Mom’s house, laid down as a foundation of the juvenile memorabilia in the storeroom.

I was seventeen, with two years’ worth of pocket money and random savings, that I hoped would get me my new guitar but it seemed like I couldn't do that without my dad. So, obviously, I had to strike a deal with him: some (dumb) internship program for some (dumb) three months in some (dumb) research department at his office, and he’d pay the remaining amount for the bass.

Just three months, I braced myself. The guitar is for life.

All I had to do was completely suck at all the jobs given, so they lay me off. It wasn’t a bad deal at all—case closed, albeit with a heavy heart.

It was my third visit to that music shop. I still couldn’t decide which one I wanted, so I was trying some tabs on bass and this guy with a bony physique, hair in a bun and a charm on a leather cord around his neck, picks up a Squire, turns the pegs and checks the sound for me.

You should try this one, he said.

I strummed a little, trying to get a feel for the instrument.

He leaned forward, stilling my fingers with his hand.

I looked up, and saw him eying me intently. He said, don't just play with your hand, let your head take over.

That’s when Dad found me, strumming with this hippy guy. He always had this scowl on his forehead, so to me he didn’t look angry, but when he reached us, the hippy guy thought about getting things straight. He met Dad with a handshake and introduced himself. His name was Adam and he taught music.

After that, it’s all kind of blurry. But I remember that it was a match made in heaven—our platonic love story, right there.

Dad knew, sort of, with his well-honed paternal instincts, that I wasn’t going to do the internship now, not after having met Adam.

The next day, I went for a visit to his workshop after school. Alone. No one asked what I wanted or who I was, which suited me, as I didn't want to be bothered.

I began my solo tour from the ground floor, peeking into rooms and roaming around the meetup space, which had lots of small tables and stools, massive walls for exhibitions and a platform for performances. The cafe that was on this floor eventually became the default hangout place.

I remember that first day like it was yesterday, taking the stairs up to the second floor; the place was sunny, bright, and quiet—except for the usual din, instruments playing, paint trays clattering, indiscriminate chatter, polite chuckles and laughter, all so serene and musical. The atmosphere was inviting and cozy.

I entered the first room off the corridor, carpeted and with long sash windows on one side. The other side was a station for stools and gear stands. Amongst them sat Adam, teaching a timid-looking boy to play the guitar. He greeted me with a smile and I patiently waited for him to finish with the boy.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. He slapped his thighs, teaching the boy how to time a beat. 

See, this is three beats per bar..., he went on. Now listen to this, he strummed his guitar to show him the downward movement.

You can tap your feet like this; it will make it easier for you.

The boy looked down intently, trying to imitate him. He didn't say much, occasionally uttered some indecipherable monosyllables and strummed, only to be stopped by Adam.

I strolled around the room. At the far end, there were a few spare instruments, some poufs and two small tables littered with notepads, behind which stood shelves filled with CDs and books.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. This is what? Four beats per bar. Good, you’re keeping up. Adam grabbed some sheet music from behind him.

I started scrutinizing the paintings that were hanging on the wall, and watched them play from the corner of my eye. After a few more minutes of some flat strumming, the boy zipped his guitar up into its case, and got up to leave. Steady your pace and work on your timing, Adam said to him before he left.

❁❁❁

 

Why bass? Adam asked me.

Just because. I loved the sound so much that I told him I could express it like no other instrument. My mind could connect with it. My heart could sync with it. I could converse in it.

I saw another guy stride into the room. Everything about him, from his gelled hair and his neat shirt and jeans, down to his clean loafers, struck me as meticulous.

Sorry I’m late today, he told Adam.

This is Reza. He assists me with the learners, Adam said.

Is she your new student? Reza asked him, eying me with a cheeky smile. He was young, a couple of years older than I, perhaps.

I didn’t reply.

Let’s try you, he said to me.

I felt nervous at his sudden offer, so I seized the first excuse that popped in my head: I don't have my guitar with me today.

He handed me a black Fender.

I wanted to play the song that I had memorized for occasions like these, when I had the self-perceived pressure of sounding perfect. I was hoping they would hear me in silence, as I closed my eyes and began strumming. Reza stopped me.

Play with us, he said.

I didn't know if it was okay to follow this guy's lead, but Adam adjusted himself on a drum kit and Reza picked up his guitar and began a warm-up riff. Adam joined in, leaving me no getaway.

The only problem was, I kind of sucked.

I missed many notes, I was hard to hear, and most definitely not in harmony.

You'll be better next time we play, Adam said. I was expecting condescension, maybe even a hint of derision, but he reassured me. It felt odd. His presence had a calming effect, like one of those people you meet and instantaneously connect with; there is nothing else you can do but smile and be happy in the moment.

Adam invited me to an informal jam session that weekend, at the workshop where he gathered all his students for practice. Then he invited me to another one, and then another after a few weeks, after which he began to teach me individually.

❁❁❁

 

What is music? He asked—the first question of our private class.

Sound? Pleasant sound? I replied, knowing that this was probably a trick question.

Organized sound, he corrected me, and continued, Like unorganized speech is jargon, like unorganized bricks are rubble, likewise, unorganized sound is noise.

He had a peculiar way of instilling his words in me, his index finger automatically rising at crucial points. His disposition was taciturn but polite. His few words were always easy to remember.

He said that it should all come naturally to me. All the toil, tricks, and hard work that I put in, I needed to conceal with grace and ease.

It's like you never see the source of the power of the heavens, you only see the effects.

You're the heart of the band, they can't sound like anything without you.

You're the glue. (Glue was my title at the workshop.)

He called me Penny.

❁❁❁

 

CHAPTER 3:

QUIET RESOLVE

 

When I get home, I find my husband, Rafae, in exactly the same pose I left him a few hours ago—hunkered over his laptop, duvet tangled up near the headboard, his gadgets scattered all over the bed. I can see the flickering screen and quivering windows reflected in his silver rimless trifocals—a hideous pair set aside for home use. 

He doesn’t seem to notice me coming in, so I drop Emo with a light thump onto the couch to get his attention. But of course, I have to articulate some form of greeting to get him to look up.

Hey, I say, looking at his face glowing in whitish-blue light from the laptop.

He looks up, looks back down and continues typing away, working on some software—Oracle or whatever it’s called. He’s still piqued by our last argument. I hear the laptop processor whir as I approach and when he looks up at me, I notice that his eyes look smaller than usual, fatigued and considerably swollen. There are visible red indents on the bridge of his chiseled nose when he takes off his glasses. He massages the temporary indentations and strokes his jaw, peering at the clock on the wall. He raises his eyebrows and I notice his jaw tighten as he gets back to work.

I shrug and move towards the closet to change, when I hear him speak: You parked the car under the awning, right? There's rain in tomorrow’s forecast.

I avoid rolling my eyes, even though he can’t see my face.

The car’s fine, I say, conjuring calm after a moment of agitation.

But did you park under the awning?

Yes, Rafae, you don't have to ask me that every time I take the car out, I say. The need to grit my teeth is building up inside me.

I don't ask you every time, he says.

You do.

I pay extra for that damn awning.

Fine, I say, trying hard to keep my mood on track.

❁❁❁

 

I wake up and find that Rafae already has a coffee mug in his hand and a tie around his neck. The room is bathed in sunlight; the open window brings, with the chilly December breeze, the aroma of gardenia and magnolia that are placed outside our windowsill.

I get up, groggily kneading my eyes with my palms, and I’m convulsed by multiple dry sneezes as I reach out for the box of tissues waiting on the nightstand.

Morning, I say to him. My voice is heavy with sleep.

It’s way past morning, he says. It’s mid-morning actually. It’ll soon be noon.

Then it will soon be afternoon, and late afternoon and so on…, I mock, stretching my arms and hurling the sheets off me. That’s how the day works, I say.

I hear the comb on the dresser vibrate; a shrill polyphonic sound fills the room.

Change your ringtone for heaven’s sake, I say, rubbing my temple.

He puts the call on speaker and I hear the honeyed chirping of his mother spill into the room. Even before greeting him, she begins to mutter apologies about how she won’t be able to make it to his new store opening tomorrow.

It’s entirely another fact that it wasn’t in any way required for her to be there. I mean, it’s better that she doesn’t get to see the demonic workaholic side of her son, who thinks all the people he works with are goat-heads.

Mama, it’s all right, he says. I’ll show you the new store when you guys visit, Rafae says waving the phone in front of his face.

Where is Palwasha? She asks. He turns the phone towards me before I can even smooth my hair. I take a sip from Rafae’s leftover coffee, which is still warm, and flash a big smile at her, and before I even utter a word, I am interrupted by what seems like a distortion; perhaps she dropped the phone. Another face stares out at us.

I just got a promotion! Rafae’s sister bursts out. The phone is unsteady in her hands. Oh, hi, I thought I was talking to Raf, she peers into the camera, which is now facing me.

Anyway, I was just excited, you know. I got the email right now about my promotion. Her eyes are watering with excitement.

I congratulate her and hand the phone back to Rafae.

I am the new District Manager, she goes on, grinning in true egoistic style. 

Rafae is beaming wide in admiration. He is clearly very pleased. It is actually his dream that people around him should work their life away and become somebody whom nobody likes—the managers or whatever the higher-ups are called. 

Say something, Rafae whispers to me.

Befuddled, I tell her that I hope she does well in her new role. Not my best line, though. I am happy for her; I just don’t know how to express it because I am not communicative that way. I can’t fake-scream and pretend to be overjoyed when I’m not. But that does not mean that I am not happy about her success. It’s just that…I haven't had any sustenance yet to help generate family exuberance.

His sister says: You know Palwasha, you should also start with something. I know you may not be interested in building a career as such, but why waste time doing nothing?

I want to ask her what she really means by ‘waste time’ and 'doing nothing', but only a grunt-like sound comes out of my mouth. I can’t think of an appropriate response because my mind is engaged in wondering why I despise her right now.

She’s still looking at me, as if expecting me to respond. I swallow quickly and say, Sure.

I should get an award for putting up with these conversations.

I get it, she goes on, laughing pretentiously. But seriously, please stop moving furniture all day and do something meaningful. I care about you and I'm telling you as a sister.

Is she scoring points on my behalf now? Also, I am finding it difficult to figure out why I am the topic of conversation here.

Well, I do have this workshop to go to, I say and look at Rafae for some support.

A workshop? She intones in puzzlement. What do you do there?

I teach there, I tell her.

Teach guitar? Is that a proper job? Sorry for prying, I didn’t know you taught.

Somebody help me, please!

It’s not a job, per se. It’s a hobby. It keeps her busy, Rafae adds politely, putting his hand on my shoulder. His condescension burns even more. I have spent a good nineteen years of my life perfecting this art. It’s sad he thinks it’s a hobby—it’s not. It’s not my job either, it’s what I live for.

Oh, well then, good luck with that, she concludes.

I feel disappointed at her demeaning attitude; people these days have no respect for artists.

After the phone call, Rafae suggests I should quit ‘wasting (more) time’ at the workshop and start teaching independently. It sounds like he is offering a truce, beginning with a topic he thinks will interest me, so that we stop being cold to each other. He tells me he could arrange a place if I was serious enough to pursue ‘my dreams’. I scoff silently. If he cared about my dreams, he would ask me what they were. And if he really cared, he would know that teaching music made it to the very bottom of the list. And if he thinks I could ever teach like Adam, he’s mistaken; I couldn’t ever consider doing what he does. Also, I hate the fact I am being lectured to, just because his sister said so. What does she even know about what I do and what I want? She bloody wears her right earplug in her left ear, I scorn inwardly.

Then he looks down at his phone and tells me, almost as if he were talking to the phone instead of me, that there's a business gala on the weekend and we are invited.

But I'm busy this weekend, I tell him.

Doing what? He looks up from his phone and raises his eyebrows.

I'm going to a show, I say stiffly.

Pfff..., he laughs lightly.

What's so funny?

Well, you know, it's just a show. The dinner gala is a serious thing. Which I think should be our priority. I'm meeting this exporter...

I roll my eyes.

Rafae, you know I don't like these dinners, I say, exasperated. I get up from my chair and strut towards the kitchen. 

It's not about what you like, Palwasha, it's my work, he calls after me. 

I roll my eyes as I open the fridge, muttering to myself, Right now, it feels like my work.

You're my wife. Support me. He sounds like he's given me an order, like he is done talking. 

I do support you. But I need to be at the show. Zayan Zaffar is playing and I can't miss it.

You can't miss a music show for me?

I can't miss it for anyone. 

Can we stop talking silly? He demands.

Rafae, you accepted the invitation without asking me. We did have a talk about me going to the concert, don’t you remember? In fact, you told me off for talking too much about Zayan Zaffar...

What was there to ask? He looks at me, surprised, like I haven't just told him I have to go somewhere else. 

You are not discussing any options here, I tell him, crossing my arms.

It's not a matter of choice Palwasha, it's business. 

It's not my business Rafae. Would you come with me to the concert if there were no gala? 

He shrugs and we both know what that means: he would rather walk on hot coals.

Well, I still expect you to come, he concludes the conversation, and picking up his laptop bag, makes his way out.

I stand there for a few minutes, staring at the door.

❁❁❁

 

CHAPTER 4:

FAN GIRL

 

There is a sound storm in the arena.

The bass drums are booming, burgeoning, blazing through the air, reverberating through my chest cavity. Technicolour blades of light cut through the fog, flashing across the crowd, blinding everyone looking at the stage. Multi-coloured confetti rains down and the roaring audience demands an encore. It’s quite unlike anything I have felt in a long time.

The singer, Aania Minaj, waves her hand in the air as she saunters along the stage's catwalk, flashing her signature smile. She bends and reaches out to fans yelling her name.

But I'm not here for her. Not entirely, that is.

I'm here to watch Zayan Zaffar on the guitar. Ze, as he is famously called for his wicked skills. We are screaming ourselves hoarse. I watch him intently, his every straddle and jerk, all his moves. If only I could watch him play in his sanctuary—untamed, untrained, a wild beast in his abode. Looking up at him, I wish I could see what goes on in that head when a rhythm comes to life, the stories of his life that back his songs.

Isn't he a spectacle, I gush appreciatively to Runa, who is my plus-one tonight. I wouldn't normally have chosen her to come with, but she is the one who had the tickets, and she reached out to me herself. How could I have said no? But this was a point Rafae didn’t understand and we had a cold spat about it, which we usually get into when my plans are concerned. Heaven forbid I mess with his schedule!

Be a supportive husband, I cried mockingly over the phone. Tell them I’m sick or something…

He didn't respond and told me he would call me back. I fidgeted for a while, holding the door of my wardrobe, wondering if I should go for a dress or jeans. Rafae didn’t call in the next twenty minutes and I thought, If I leave now, I might just make it to the show. And on the spur of the moment, I called Runa and asked her to pick me up, then texted Rafae that I was going to the show. He still hadn’t called me back.

What I didn't know was that Runa would show up on a motorbike. Initially, I did feel the thrill of clutching on to Runa's back as we rode on a speeding bike to the show. Her dare-devil riding left me feeling tipsy.

Aania announces her next song—a ballad, saying she fell in love with it the first time she heard Ze play it in a quiet corner of his room.

That is not his usual spot, she says, putting her thin arm over Ze's shoulder, a wide smile on her face.

I know it was for someone, but he won't tell me who, she laughs and the audience laughs with her. You guys should ask him, she prods us.

There are scattered shouts from the crowd, demanding that Ze tell us whom the song is for.

He laughs good-humoredly and begins the song.

For all you ladies, he announces, with a slight grin.

The crowd screams in glee as the music begins, and cheers again when the music moves to verse.

Now this guy knows how to bring a smile to your face, Runa says of my grinning face.

Except, he doesn't know I exist, I tell her.

If only you could cease to be invisible.

I'm sensing you have some ideas.

Of course, and I'll be happy to give you a demo, Runa quips. Unless he's dating that twenty-year-old on the stage with him. I'm not the insecure type, but she does seem like a serious competitor, she says.

I don't think so.

I hope you're right, she goes. But don’t get your hopes up, you know women are such hounds when it comes to men like this. 

Right, I give her an ironic side-glance. I'm married. Just so you know.

Which is exactly why I propose you meet him. See the wonders of the world. Get a new perspective on love, she waves her fingers around my head, like she had magic trickling down my face, as she casts a spell. Then she giggles and says: Didn't you ever feel like you made a mistake, marrying a guy who resembles a walking spreadsheet?

No.

I laugh as I imagine Rafae as a walking spreadsheet.

On stage, Ze expands a riff. With a pained expression on his face, he runs a scale up the neck and slides back down; the guitar cries in symphony.

Strobe light effects are moving to the beat of the sound as the music changes rhythm, going faster as the ballad transcends to another melody. 

Look, he's off the stage! Runa says to me.

I look at the stage and Ze isn't there.

We could catch him backstage! Her pupils dilate with excitement.

Maybe he's gone to pee or something.

Why would he pee in the middle of a set?

I do a mouth shrug.

Come on, she drags me from the floor to the backstage entrance.

We'll lose our spot, I object.

It would be worth it if we get to meet him backstage, wouldn’t it?

Are you planning to crash the loo by any chance?

God, he's not in the loo.

 

There are multiple hurdles on the way towards the back gate. Slotted barriers, and guards manning the entrances reserved for pass holders and staff. We don't have any passes, and we are definitely not staff. Runa has her work badge in her purse, which she slings around her neck. Its ribbon colour matches the ones the volunteers are wearing. She swishes her card before the face of a docile teenage volunteer and declares herself 'staff', walking speedily and dragging me by the wrist. It isn’t very bright, so no one can read the card. We move with ease.

Until we come to our last barrier gate—the guarded rail a few feet away from backstage. We can see him near the stairs of the stage, as a girl in a black cap and polo shirt hands him a water bottle and tissues.

The tissues turn to cotton balls as soon as they touch his face. He asks for more. A whole box is presented; he quickly rips as many as he can, wipes his face and drops them back into the girl’s hand.

He exhales and takes a phone call, which takes only seconds to answer.

A guy with a blond mohawk, purple t-shirt and metallic nails lifts the guitar and fixes the strap after Ze puts it on.

It is almost as if Runa is possessed. She calls out random stuff to him in a continuum: We are huge fans, we are musicians, we love your stuff, like that, but her voice doesn't reach him.

Also, she isn't a musician. She just wanted to learn to play a guitar, at a point when she was having a midlife crisis and her boyfriend married someone else. So after a few classes at the workshop, and expanding her already huge entourage of friendships, she felt 'better already' and complained that she could never take out time to pursue music full-time. But she thought highly of our teacher—Adam—and dropped him a message asking him if he was single and interested in taking their student-teacher relationship to the next level.

Adam never replied to her.

To my relief, Runa calmed down after some time and apologized for the message.

What I haven't told Runa, is that Adam’s lips flicker into a smile whenever he hears her name.

I think she's a bit too all-over-the-place for Adam, who has a very subdued nature and frail physique for a man in his forties. They are polar opposites.

We love your stuff? I hiss at her, breaking into a laugh. Who says that?

She cups her mouth and shouts again, We love you!

I love you too, he chants back, flashing a wide grin at us before hopping quickly up the steps leading to the stage. Every second counts.

Our mouths hang open.

Surreal.

You heard it! He said I love you too! Runa chirps excitedly at me. I nod shakily, both of us running back to our spot in the arena.

That's consent right there, I could do him in my dreams tonight, she goes on.

I did not have to know that, I say, shaking my head.

Oh sure, yeah, you must want to do the same! But I'm okay with us doing the same guy. As long as it isn't real, she suddenly gets sharp in her excitement, like I had designs on her boyfriend, whom she doesn't even have anymore. I mean they keep coming and going—I lose track.

She uses the look I give her to start a new conversation: My parents are trying to fix me up with a guy they know.

Oh, how appalling.

No, I actually like this guy. But the problem is...

There's a problem? I mock, referring to all her previous problematic relationships. The real problem was that she was incapable of being normal.

I lied to my parents. I stood him up, thinking oh, he's probably just another jerk awaiting a huge dowry. But then...there was no complaint from his side... isn't that weird?

So my mum asks me the next day: How'd the date go?...and I say, It went okay, knowing she'll get to the bottom of the story and bust me in my room later that night—but no busting follows.

The next day she says: I called the guy's mother last night—and I go, Shit! And she says, The guy liked you but he couldn't quite make up his mind. So both parents decided we should meet again.

What? I ask, losing the plot.

Exactly! That dog! He stood me up too! He lied to his mother too.

Then you’re a match made in heaven, I mock, shaking my head.

So, Runa begins after a pause, Now he interests me. I looked him up, he's cute, and he’s a foreign graduate, a doctor—like me. He likes music—like me. He owns three guitars and a small studio and he's part-timing with a band these days.

Sounds alluring. Why did he become a doctor, again?

Shut up, why do you always negetivitate things?

Is that even a word?

Okay, so you're now in love with a guy because he stood you up and you didn’t actually got stood up, you found out that you did?

No, I'm not in love. But I'd like to give him a chance. Because he seems cool. Although he’s playing hard to get but—

So when are you meeting him?

Geez, I’ll have to check my calendar, she says. She winks and then laughs, flinging her hair back with a comic air.

❁❁❁

 

The show concludes around midnight. We rush to get back, but it will still take us an hour to reach home. Now that the excitement has subsided, I can feel that the night is colder than usual; the darkness that surrounds us chills our spines.

Runa lobs her helmet my way and tries to humor me in the hope that it will bring some colour to my face which is now white as a ghost. As thrilling and adventurous as the bike ride seemed while coming to the show, it feels the complete opposite going back. The roadway at this time is an unlit pitch-black ominous path. Every rock and shrub on the rough roadside remind me of night city goons. Images of us, throats slit, molested and murdered, lying savagely mutilated by the sidewalk, keep flashing through my mind in gory detail, making me shudder.

As luck would have it, after a mile or two, Runa's second-hand Honda starts having some trouble. I realize something is wrong, not because the ride isn't smooth but because Runa starts cussing at it.

What's wrong, I ask.

She replies with more cuss words. Then the headlights go off.

All my nightmares come alive.

That thing about manifesting your imaginings…I begin.

Runa tells me to shut up and breathe. When I do, the cold air feels as though it's freezing my lungs.

This is bad news, she shouts over her shoulder and I ask why.

Just pray.

For what?

Some of her words get lost in the cutting winds, but I catch a few: … keep safe.

The cars won't see us, duh, she yells.

Good news. There aren't any cars.

So all these people who came to see the show, what route did they take exactly? She asks.

Just then, a car whooshes by.

I swear this was the first one I saw.

You're going to see more, now that we're going at snail’s pace.

I look up the nearest fuel station and we decide to get the lights checked.

Something must have come loose, Runa suggests.

Our brains, maybe.

❁❁❁

 

CHAPTER 5:

SAVING FACE

 

The bike stops twice before reaching the gas station. I clutch my chest, trying to check if my heart is still pumping blood. Wearing leather jackets, and the decision to put our hair up under our helmets has been worthwhile.

What are you doing? Runa asks.

I do a frenzied head shake that's more like a nod. She shakes her head and commands: Call him!

Rafae? I ask.

No, Batman; of course Rafae, she says looking at me with an open mouth and disappointed droopy eyes, like I was way behind the world right now. What else are husbands for? Tell him to come pick us up.

Aren't you going to get this fixed? I glance at the bike and then at her.

I don't think I'll be able to drive this thing home. I'll just park it here and have my Dad come for it in the morning.

I'm so busted, I murmur, as I call Rafae while Runa glares.

He barely speaks to me on the phone, which suggests he had predicted this would happen but I chose to disregard his warnings.

What did he say? Runa asks expectantly when I end the call, her eyes shining at the prospect of a glossy black BMW crossover pulling over for us in the middle of this cold godforsaken night. I mean, the night wasn’t too bad on the whole, if you ask me. Except for this part right now.

He said okay.

Okay? Just okay? Okay, what? Is he coming?

I guess so.

Didn't he say? Did he ask where you were?

No.

Then how would he know where we are?

I raise my phone and send him the pin.

Great. How far is your house again?

❁❁❁

 

The ideal thing right now would be for the crew van from the show to stop by the gas station to fuel up. Ze would come out, just to get some late-night fresh air.

There he would be our savior.

He will invite us to join the crew in the van—fluorescent cocktails in glasses with small umbrellas in them, and loud music. He would corner me and ask me my name and what I do. Ah, a musician, his eyes would sparkle. What’s your toy? He would ask, his dreamy eyes scanning my face. I would tell him I play bass—he would drool. He would tell me to join him on the road. He’ll get rid of his clown bassist for me…

Why didn't you just take your car? Runa says. I almost jump, even though her tone is modulated.

Because I thought you enjoyed riding your bike and you wanted me to join you.

I did. But we'd be much safer in a car.

Well, I didn't know that.

She gives me a raised eyebrow look.

I mean, you know what I mean. You can't turn this around on me, I say.

I'm not, I'm just...

Runa, I know you're stressed.

Why didn't Rafae suggest you take the car? Maybe for one day he could take an Uber or something.

He didn't suggest it because I didn't ask him and I didn't ask him because he was pissed off with me going to this concert.

Why?

I click my tongue and wave my hand. It was one of our usual one-offs, I say.

She shrugs and leaves it at that.

I hope it's resolvable because we need him right now, she goes. Her eyes are wide with fearful anticipation.

I give her a weary look and breathe out with a smile, trying to placate her.

❁❁❁

 

Rafae pulls up, the fuel station reflecting in his gleaming car. He kills the engine. We can see him craning his neck through the door, a second before he spots us. We can’t be missed: two vacant-eyed women on the pavement outside the convenience store, in the middle of the night.

There are no words exchanged. We get into the car immediately. Runa takes several pictures of her parked and locked motorbike and offers a generous amount of money to one of the guys at the station, who was indulgently helping us to get it started, to take good care of it until she comes back for it in the morning.

Don't let it out of your sight, she reminds him, her words clearly enunciated, as though the guy has trouble understanding speech.

I hope it's here when I get back. My father’s going to murder me if I lose it, she announces as she gets into the backseat.

I give her a sympathetic look in the mirror but refrain from speaking temporarily, due to Rafae's searching glances.

Almost as if she gets my cue, she says to Rafae: Sir, thank you so much for coming. You have no idea how much we needed you to be here.

He doesn't reply to her, but he lifts his eyes to the mirror and I know there is some kind of acknowledgment because Runa smiles in gratitude, thinking it best to stop speaking.

We drive in silence, and occasionally Runa hums something and Rafae looks in the mirror.

Were you up when I called you? I try to break the cold hard ice.

He doesn't respond to me.

I feel like telling him that he could resume being a jerk to me when we get back home. He could at least save face and pretend to be cordial in front of a friend. But no, he has to put me in this position, where other people get curious about my relationship with him.

You can take the right lane from here, Runa speaks. Rafae nods and, to my surprise, even speaks.

Is your father a veteran?

Yes, and this is the veteran colony for ex-servicemen, she explains, pumped by the little conversation that muffled the sound of everyone's breathing. I guess Rafae probably knows that.

That grey apartment with the ivy hanging by the window, she points.

Rafae pulls over and she's so quick to get out that I suspect she teleported herself to the other side of the gate.

She waves goodbye but Rafae waits until we see her light up the living room. Then we leave.

I wish he would show the same degree of caring for me.

❁❁❁

 

How was the dinner, I ask, and immediately regret the question because of the glare I get in return.

How do you suppose it went?

I hope the food was good. I pat his stomach and wrap my arms around his rotund waist that I can only manage to encircle halfway.

Thanks for saving our butts today, I schmooze and lean my head on his chest. He doesn’t touch me.

Come on, you're acting like someone just turned all your switches off, I fidget with his collar playfully.

He raises his eyebrow and I notice his jaw tighten.

Maybe it's you, he says. He unclasps himself from my embrace and says: It's all funny to you, isn't it? Life—one big joke.

I take this as a conversation starter and decide to ramble on about my amazing evening, even though it ended the way it did, but coming back home now, I am back to feeling exultant. I think the sight that I saw was enough to keep me happy for days. I could close my eyes and transport myself backstage to Ze; each time the memory plays a little differently in my head, sometimes he seductively wipes his caramel torso, and beads of sweat disappear as the towelette touches his skin. Sometimes, he draws near to where we stand; he smiles and tells the guard to let us in—and we enter. I know both Runa and I were present there, but somehow in these memories, I never see her, or any other people. They were there as phantoms, dispensing only auditory responses whenever needed.

Rafae strokes his jaw and massages his temple to de-stress, as though instead of us, he had been the one waiting aimless and unguarded at the fuel pump in the middle of a freezing December night.

What’s bothering you? Talk to me, I put my hand on his jaw, forcing him to look at me. I know you’re mad at me, but I had the best time today...

And what about me? Did you ask me how my time went?

I think I did.

He scoffs. You don't care about anything but yourself. No, actually you don't even care about yourself.

I stare at him, arch an eyebrow and cock my head.

You put yourself in danger out there, and you’re asking me what’s bothering me? Do you think this is a joke? I know you are an ‘independent woman’, he mocks me with air quotes. But does that mean you go out looking for trouble all the time?

It wasn’t my mistake.

Whose mistake was it? What if you were found dead in some gutter nearby? Who’d be responsible?

I’m sorry for scaring you Rafae, but I swear I called you the moment we realized the bike went—

Exactly, you should thank me; you should also bend down and do my crown right now, for all I care. Idiot woman!

I let out a gasp unintentionally, thinking it's best not to say something right now to this riled man in front of me. I walk out of the room, giving him some time to calm down. Rafae shouts an apology behind me.

What can I do? You make me angry, he says, following me into the living room.

It was a bad idea to call you! I snap.

You were supposed to be with me at that business dinner. But you ran away to a concert! You, your wanton ways, and your wayward friends.

I didn't run away! You knew about it a week before you scheduled the dinner.

My business clients can’t be scheduled as per your wishes, Palwasha. They said they wanted this dinner, so I told you we had to go.

And I told you I wasn't missing the show.

So you prefer some dude in extravagant pants jerking off on his guitar on stage, over a sophisticated dinner? I was embarrassed you weren’t there. Everyone was asking about you. I had to tell them you were sick.

I was embarrassed you weren’t there at the show with me.

It wasn’t your show.

Ha! Like you would have come even if it had been!

Your freak show, that’s what it would be. Nobody would come to see it.

Exactly! This is always your attitude with me, as though I’m only good enough to accompany you on boring dinners with your balding business friends and their social worker wives!

It’s the only thing you're good at, he says pointedly. So take my advice and do what’s best for both of us.

He has hit a nerve. Because the truth is I’m not even good at mingling with the wives of his boring business associates.

I storm out of the room into another, pacing through the house, trying to find a peaceful spot where I won’t hear him. Which angers him more because I’m not listening to his diatribe.

He starts yelling at the top of his lungs now—verbal diarrhea he can’t curtail.

You choose to believe you’re a musician, but you are not. Because if you’re so good, why don't you ever earn a buck from it? Music is just a fantasy in your brain. If you could really do it, you would have done it by now.

Does that imply that I should never go to any live shows? I yell.

I'm implying that you have a duty to be my wife, and if you realize that, it would greatly support our marriage.

My duty? My eyes hurt when I open them so wide.

Are we talking about duties now? I say. One day I go where I want to and you're losing your mind. Imagine what it does to me every day.

If it's so hard for you to live with me, why don't you just run off with one of those music guys of yours, who never cuts or washes his hair for years and lives on the roads like a hooligan, he continues scathingly.

You’re pathetic.

Of course, I am. Only blessed are those friends of yours who pull off stunts on motorbikes in the middle of the night on a motorway.

I know I’ll never hear the end of it. His highness did meager little me a favor!

He strides towards the bedroom.

The fight between us wasn't even about who went where with whom. It was about his unjustified prejudices against me, his flawed expectations of my behavior. Telling me all the time that I wasn't trying to fit into his life. As though I were a jigsaw puzzle and my parts didn't fit properly into shape.

The truth was, it was more him than me who was out of fit. I never pressured him to enjoy being a part of my life, knowing for a fact that he doesn't. Do what you like, I always said to him. And I always found him working. Which should have been an indication of his dry personality. An unfitting thing right there: a man who worked all the time. His only hobby was his work, and if his work allowed him—travel. So he did. He worked a lot and he traveled—a lot.

❁❁❁

 

January 2017

CHAPTER 6:

AUDITION ANXIETY

 

It's been two hours since I began fidgeting with my phone.

The thing is, I can't make up my mind about the audition, or work up the courage I need to make the call. I find myself in the same situation I was in at the Open Mic day. I need that motivational boost. I need to be thrust into the possibility. I am not a member of some introvert squad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I am not just avoiding a situation because I don’t want to burst out of my bubble—it’s not like that. I am just… figuring. Figuring out how to settle into this preposterous, pretentious, presumptuous world. A world where people suffocate you with their smug happy faces, exciting jobs, supportive spouses, and comfortable homes up on the hill with a sunset view overlooking the fields. They will rub it into your face till your nose is raw and you concede that their life is definitely happier than yours—like a prize, a destination, a goal. A world where love and happiness are only worth it if you have people’s accolades. A world where nobody has an actual conversation. A world where people have fallen in love with words and have lost the art of listening in the process.

Absolute sacrilege.

I am trying to survive this world, where it is understood that to personify absolute productivity, one must appear sleepless, give up leisure, and one’s face should reflect havoc—I think I have the last one down pat.

I feel jittery from anticipation. The mere thought of calling them makes my palms moist. I guess I can't bear to be judged where on the spectrum of artists I stand. But if I blow this chance, I may never find out. With that possibility in mind, I decide to dial Kabir.

There is loud music in the background and I cannot hear a thing.

I introduce myself. The volume goes down and his voice becomes animated.

The bass girl! He says.

There’s a ring to this phrase, ‘the bass girl’. I like it.

How are you? He says.

Good. Great in fact. Uh, I wanted to come over for the tryout…I mean, I know I cancelled that day, but now I’m back…, I ramble.

There is a thinking pause, after which he tells me: We have a session tomorrow morning. We can hear you after that.

Sounds good, I say brightly.

You sound good too, he says.

There’s something about his tone that gets me grinning. I try not to get carried away by the frivolous compliment, and before we hang up, deliver my practiced response of looking forward to seeing him soon.

❁❁❁

 

The next day, I hastily push up the sleeves of my Khaki commando jacket, slip into my sketchers, sling Emo onto my shoulder and leave.

The fronds of the palm trees in my apartment buildings are flapping and uncurling in the breeze. It’s a beautiful day today, sunny though not warm.

On my way there, I cannot help feeling panicky and have a robust urge to go home. The fact is, they could roll their eyes at me or yawn or simply thank me for coming, and never call me back.

I need to relax. I need composure. And I definitely need to stop circling around the same area, and ask someone for directions.

Once I arrive, I waste more time by skipping the elevator and opting for the stairs. My innate resolve to be fit and environmentally friendly fades, and I begin to space out when I reach the third floor. After which, having no choice, I let the elevator scoop me up to my lucky number on the seventh floor.

A cat is lurking outside the studio hallway, eying me as I amble down the corridor towards it, judging me from top to toe. He tilts his head as I approach the door, as though demanding my purpose for being there. I try to coo at him, but I guess he hates it. He flicks his whiskers and meows at me before casually sauntering down the corridor to amuse himself.

I wait for Kabir in the small reception area, sitting on a leather sofa. Anxious, I leaf through the magazines on the table: Reza Ray on the cover of the latest issue, hair swept up, staring back with inviting eyes—lightly gripping the collar of his loose-fit shirt, top buttons undone, a silver chain peeking through. I flip the magazine closed with a grunt which I hope isn’t audible, and put it back with a light smack, face down.

The television is on but muted. It’s some music channel, but the news is on at the moment.

I hear the chirr of the door, and a wave of music fills the room, before fading away as the door closes. Maddy stomps into the reception area, bellowing at someone on his phone. I want to say something, a hello or a greeting of some kind. I clear my throat to speak but before I do I am noticed.

Penny! You’re here! Come on in, he says.

The studio inside has a feeling of warmth—carpets on wood floors and afternoon sun pouring in from the windows onto shiny expensive equipment.

We’re in the middle of a recording right now, Maddy says. He gestures towards the recording room, divided by a glass wall, where two singers, and two percussionists with bongo and hand drums, are playing with the mix.

They sound amazing. I am mildly terrified and begin to question my abilities to deliver in this professional environment. The workshop is more relaxed, and nobody is bothered with perfection, but here it seems quite the opposite.

We can wait here until they’re done, he tells me. We sit on a sofa behind Kabir, who's at the controls, a headset around his neck, drumming his fingers to the beat.

Every time the artists move out of the live room, my heart skips a beat, thinking the session is done and now it's my turn. But it's not. It's just someone coming out to take a call or talk to Kabir or Maddy.

After waiting for an eon, I hear Maddy talking to me, Let’s see what you have for us.

Uh, right, I say, uncasing Emo and positioning it on my lap.

No, Sugar, he interrupts. You will play with them. With a friendly shove on the arm, he motions me to go to the live room. A pale lanky boy in cargo shorts, resembling a veritable part-time tech, asks me if I need a stool. I nod, although I am comfortable standing. Every time he bends over, his round metal-rimmed specs glide down to the bridge of his nose, and he quickly pushes it back up. I think he must have been a librarian before. A male librarian. A Mibrarian.

So, I have this song… I say stupidly, to no one in particular.

Let’s jam, Kabir says, handing me a random bass and placing Emo carefully on one side.

I don’t need a bass. Why is he giving me a bass?

There is a knot in the pit of my stomach, getting tighter by the second, as I try to get a feel for this stranger in my hands. There’s a premonition building inside my head, a feeling that I am going to suck at this because now I don’t even have Emo. I thought they were just going to hear me play my song. I can’t play with professionals. I need powder. For my fingers.

The singers and the bongo players are now seated on the sofa in the control room with lively faces, waiting on us to begin.

The sight of these people staring at me is making me nervous.

Lanky connects my bass with the amp and we are tuning and adjusting.

The setup is done: me on stranger bass, Kabir on guitars and Lanky on drums. They start, and I follow their lead. I'm sinking into the wave of pleasurable strumming and fretting when I sense a change in the atmosphere, like a conversation has started of which I have no inkling. Maddy nods at them, I suppose; I am involved in playing so I can’t make out the signals.

They are going faster, building more tension. I try to catch up but I am losing pace and notes. I wonder what is up with them. I try to make eye contact during interludes, but our eyes don’t meet.

I realize that’s the challenge: them against me.

I am plucking and picking as fast as I can.

This is harder than I thought. My fingers are getting numb—more tension builds. I can sense a fury growing inside me. Sometimes I enjoy playing my guts out, but this is outrageous. I curse under my breath, moving with them, too swift and brisk to be processed.

Finally, after a couple of excruciating minutes, we release and conclude. When we stop, I exhale; it comes out like a moan. The strings are hot to the touch. Lanky lets out a hoot to express how awesome this session was. The audience looks entertained and excited. I am still stuck on my stool, taking off stranger bass, heart thumping fast, trying to digest what just happened.

This is probably the last time anyone will ever try to fix me up on some gig. I pick Emo up and walk slowly out of the room to join the crowd outside. I really wish there was a back door here, so I could disappear without having to face anyone.

Kabir catches me quietly trying to slip away and calls my name.

How did I do? I ask him, more in the manner of small talk than to get any feedback. I’m too nervous to listen to his opinion right now.

Penny, do you want me to be honest…, he continues.

My face begins to feel hot.

For someone who's been playing since they were ten…you were uh…, he shakes his head regretfully, which seems insincere.

I am aware that my mouth is agape. I’m prepared to pick Emo up and leave, never to hear from them again.

But Maddy inserts himself between us with his arms spread wide, and says excitedly: Penny! You were great.

I fear a hug approaching. Thankfully, he only pats my shoulder.

Kabir's smile breaks wide—he was pulling my leg. The band watching us tells me I did well.

Good job, everyone says to me.

Good job!

I am ecstatic.

❁❁❁

 

By the time I leave Madock, the sun is almost close to setting, and the streets are buzzing with activity around this hour, just like my insides. When I reach home, I fling myself onto the bed with a feeling of joy I haven't felt in a long time.

Rafae isn’t home, he’s traveling for work. So I give him a call. I’m so eager to tell him about my day that I dive straight into conversation.

I went for an audition today, I say.

An audition? He questions.

At a studio,

A studio? Hmm…and what is this studio? One of your Adam’s startups? He chortles.

No, it’s like a recording studio.