Total Siyapaa. Neha Sharma
she’d complete this project, and yeah, she’d do a great job with it, then she’d issue Jenny an ultimatum: Move me or I’m moving.
Jeff was nowhere to be seen so Aasha found them a cosy corner table for two. The table itself was round, like a garden table, and was covered in a white lace tablecloth. It held a potted orange plant along with a salt and pepper shaker and a bottle of olive oil. It was, Aasha thought to herself, all very quaint. Soft piano notes came floating out from one of the many open windows along the street, probably a rehearsal underway. Aasha ordered a beer for herself and fired up her iPad to take a look at the festival programme and performing artistes. There were two lists – the actual list and her list; all the artistes vs. artistes from the Subcontinent, the festival vs. her work.
“Sorry, sorry am late!” Jeff called out to her ten minutes later, pulling her attention from the screen. Jeff had his hands full. Slowly he set about arranging his equipment, which was previously slung across his shoulders, on the floor, against the wall. He smoothened out his wrinkled forest green shirt but in vain. Aasha wasn’t surprised to see him in his trademark khaki cargo pants; each pocket was stuffed with work-related titbits – wires, batteries, SD cards, pen drives, super glue, and other last-minute fixes.
“Man! Luxury looks good on you, Aasha,” he quipped with a kind smile once he had settled down. Clearly he didn’t miss her flushed but relaxed complexion. “So I guess your room had the ridiculous tub as well, eh?” He reached out for her glass of beer and took a generous gulp, moving out of her reach as he did so.
“Sorry I’m late,” he offered once again as he set down her now-drained beer glass. “I kind of fell asleep. You know how it is with hotel pillows. Have you ordered already?”
“Would I dare order without you? I mean look at what happened to my beer,” she replied cheekily. Jeff snorted in return. “Good, I’m starving. Let’s get some food on this table.”
“How is this table even standing? And how are you not a cholesterol bomb yet?” she asked him over a mouthful. “This is ridiculous Jeff!”
“Ridiculously good! Stop talking and keep eating. Trust me it’s going to be a long day; I’d rather face it with a full stomach.” Jeff dug into a portion of his apple and arugula salad, alternating the green spoonfuls with generous portions of lasagne, grilled vegetables, mushrooms, garlic bread and French fries. Each bite was accompanied by gulps of beer, this time his own and not Aasha’s. In contrast, Aasha’s roast chicken sandwich and glass of lemonade seemed like a sparse meal.
“So, who do we have first up?”
Aasha had just taken a big bite of her sandwich so she waited to swallow the bite before answering, “The Crashing Waves Collective. I’ve interviewed them before. They have an amazing story. I think you’ll like them.”
“Really?” Jeff asked, except it came out sounding more like ‘weally’ thanks to all the lettuce blocking the words. He chewed his food quickly, ignoring Aasha’s crackle of laughter. “Who are they? And what kind of music do they make?”
“I interviewed them last year at the London Jazz Festival,” she told him. “They were performing at Ronnie Scott’s.”
“Holy moly!”
“Yeah, and they lived up to it too. They are two brothers, from Sri Lanka,” she took a sip of her lemonade remembering the two slight young men with the most polite manners she had ever come across. “They have an incredible story: they lost everything, including family, during the Asian Tsunami. They were in their early teens at the time,” Aasha told a now-attentive Jeff.
“For a while they bounced around from camp to camp till they were transported to a centre in Australia.
During the interview, Aravinda, the elder brother, admitted they really struggled in the early days. I guess it was more like PTSD, that and severe cultural alienation.”
But Australia was also where their story found a new narrative. It was where they were introduced to Jazz.
“They had a young and engaging therapist. She had tried to get through to the two boys for weeks but they wouldn’t speak. Finally she used music to draw them out of their shell. Romesh, the younger one, told me she tried a number of musical styles and nothing really worked till the day she played some Jazz – Miles Davis, it was. And that was it. It was the first time the brothers communicated with a staff member.”
Aasha had enjoyed talking to them; she was grateful to them for sharing their moving story. And she really looked forward to seeing them again.
“From there on they found their way back through Jazz. They’ve been performing together now for about four years, and their first song – they always start with it, is called Belinda’s Chasing Blues; it’s about that young therapist.”
Neither Jeff nor Aasha said anything when she finished the story. The both looked off at the horizon, lost in their own thoughts for a while.
“This is why I love this job,” Jeff said quietly, breaking the silence. “You get to meet some exceptional people and then you get to meet them again and again. It’s like I said, Aasha, best job in the world!”
She smiled back in response. Sometimes, it really was a rewarding job. She stole a quick glance at the street clock before rechecking her schedule.
“We need to wrap this up, Jeff. We’re meeting the media liaison officer – Duncan McIntyre, in fifteen minutes.”
“McIntyre? I met the guy last year when I was here and the two years before that as well. He is a pretty cool guy. You’ll like him. He always gives answers.
Besides this is his eighth season here. He literally knows the festival like the back of his hand.”
“Welcome Ms. Singh,” Duncan McIntyre offered his hand to Aasha. He almost had to double down his six feet five frame to reach her outstretched hand. “Is this your first time here? At the festival?” he asked her, his unruly blond hair falling across his forehead and into his ice blue eyes.
“Please, call me Aasha,” she insisted before addressing the remainder of the question, “Yes, it is my first visit. I am very excited about the programme. And you know my colleague, Jeff Mars.”
“Jeff, welcome back. Always good to have friends return to us!”
Duncan had a very easygoing vibe about him. Aasha could see why people gravitated towards him. He was dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt, but he wore them with an edgy attitude – there was definitely a little rocker in the mix of things. He turned back to address Aasha, “If you’ll follow me, I’ll walk you through all the significant bits of the festival, and I’ll try to answer any questions you may have along the way. I’m dropping you off with The Crashing Waves Collective, right?
Aasha stepped in line, matching his pace. Jeff was right behind her. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve interviewed them before, actually. They are a talented duo.”
“Yeah, we believe so. And great lads to share a pint with too.”
Duncan introduced Aasha and Jeff to the inner workings of the festival – the various practice rooms, sharing histories and trivia, as well as old hands, people who had been with the festival since conception. Jeff kept the camera running all through the exchange.
Keeping Jeff’s advice in mind, Aasha didn’t waste any opportunity. “So, Duncan, since we are on camera, tell us about the surge in artistes from the Subcontinent at this year’s festival. Was it by design?”
Aasha couldn’t help but notice Duncan’s ease with the camera. He clearly had enough experience to understand camera angles and light. He held his body just right. He would translate really well on screen.
“It was something that