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 was growing increasingly impatient, as was Jeff. He had spent his time either chatting up the crowd or slouched in his chair playing a game of Angry Birds. Right now he was grunting at his phone, waging a way between little red birds and tiny green pigs.
A pretty piece of music was playing in the background – Mozart, Jeff informed her, as she went through her notes and questions once again. They were thirty-five minutes past the scheduled meeting. The interview was meant to have wrapped up five minutes ago. This should have been the polite goodbyes part of the programme (or the friendlier ‘we should catch up over drinks’ part), but the artiste – Aman Ali, was yet to turn up.
The only information of Aman’s delay was a text she received twenty minutes ago from his festival rep, a man she had spoken to twice now on the phone:
Hey. Aman’s gig ran late. Should be there in 15. Thanks for your patience! - Dominic
But even that message had come ten minutes late. Aasha wasn’t impressed. Tardiness deserved no empathy; no excuse was enough either. Usually she handled these situations with an amount of detachment. It was just a job after all, but this delay was torpedoing her entire evening –both work and music wise.
“I was really looking forward to catching a gig or two tonight,” Jeff mumbled from across the table mirroring Aasha’s thoughts. He sat with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His hands were clasped in his lap. For a change he wasn’t eating or drinking anything; in fact it was the first time Aasha had seen him without food or drink – maybe this in itself was cause for concern.
“I mean that’s the best part about these assignments.”
They still had two additional segments to record after this – that was two phone calls to two sets of artistes informing them of the delay. One had been very gracious; the other hadn’t, suggesting a rescheduling if Aasha and Jeff couldn’t keep to their time.
Not that it would matter anyway; even if they skipped the last interview, it would still be too late to make it to the Hub later that evening.
“We’re performing at the Hub tonight. You guys should join us,” Romesh had urged Aasha after the interview. “We’ll save you a couple of seats up front. Who knows you might even inspire us to create something new!”
“Yeah, we are on the lookout for a new muse anyway,” Arvinda had joked.
She liked the sound of a crashing waves muse. Jeff liked it even more. “Think about it – me inspiring music. Me being the source of melody. It sounds so right!”
“So right, it’s just wrong.”
But now there would be someone else in that seat, being all muse-like. Someone that wasn’t her. Or Jeff (because if it wasn’t her, she’d rather it was Jeff). Someone who wasn’t them, just because one flaky singer couldn’t manage his time well.
As another strong wave of disappointment washed over Aasha, she upped her carbohydrate intake. She reached for a portion of herbed bun and tore it into two, smearing each end with a dollop of butter. She offered one piece to Jeff before popping the other piece of soft white bread and salty butter into her mouth. It helped take a bit of the edge off, but that wasn’t nearly enough.
She took a deep breath and continued waiting.
By the time Aman and Dominic arrived, both Aasha and Jeff had lost any bit of enthusiasm they had before. Their faces were blank – with a great amount of effort both colleagues
