The jazz trumpets from the speakers filled up the accented blankness of the Linea. It suddenly boomed with the life of a Park Street evening of lights, in the rain. The lights were playfully washing one colour off the other, while the sound was of a nuanced melody which could only make its way to a tasteful listener. Quietly he parks his car in one of the underground parking slots, walks assuredly to his table and asks for his drink. The band playing on Thursday evening was "Streetfood".
The lead vocalist was a wayward looking young girl with streaks of fancy colouring her mop of hair over her sharp jawline, an offshoot fashionista of weaves, knits, patterns and stitches, and an authority over her lyrics which behaved as if they would only perform to her tune. She was all of twenty one, and five feet one. But she had a towering presence over her followers, and was well followed. Other members of the band included the drummer, Sandip, with whom she frequently spent her nights, and the bass guitarist, Zico, who was her cousin. This other lead guitarist who also multi-functioned as the PR of the band as well as the backing vocals was Gautam, in love with Sruja. They were Streetfood. A crazy concoction of people creating some of the most popular urban music and covers the city had lately heard. Success is sometimes very crucial to a blinding arrogance, as opposed to popularity which can lead to responsibility.
Tired of the toss between love and lust, Sruja took a break and proposed a new album of twelve gorgeous songs, one outdoing the other. Evening after evening she professionally performed to her sedated best and thus arrived at the same evening of Azaan's taste. She beamed in her off-white saree and almost blouseless blouse. She held the microphone with the beauty of her bangles and suavely headbanged accompanied by the diamond dots flashing their occasional presence past her wild streaks. Her heels gave her the height of confidence with which she chanced upon him. His look was straight, converging right into her soul, with his gaze -- piercing. There was something unputdownable about him, something that made her wish to know him, know him better. Nothing happened thereafter. She went back to the arms of Sandip with that alluring gaze all over her thoughts.
She ached for the next Thursday and prayed he would be there. He was. She knew she could not waste this evening of not knowing him and strategically sang of her most devastatingly beautiful lyrics at him, "Your eyes made love to me / Your shadow touched mine / Songs flew / As did we / Together to the clouds". And smiled. He looked back, clapped in appreciation, walked out. She was not used to such a kind of lack of pursuit and took out her rage that night on Sandip's affection. She was frightfully empty.
Two weeks later she bumped into Azaan in the corridor of one of the more dignified clubs. He was seeing someone else out, his glass casually lolling in his hands. She had come for a game of squash. And childishly, smiled. He came very close to her, and whispered, "You look good even in sweat". That was unexpected. She smiled nervously and popped a half-baked sentence back. He then came dangerously close to her, and lurking near her shoulders, whispered, "Your words sing". That was the heaviest compliment she was ever paid, and the most unnerving. He smelled of Talisker, and understood what effect he was having on her.
"Would you like to join me?" he continued.
Carefully, and with a poised air, she refused, and walked away. Feeling the sensuous weight of his looks all over her, following her. And somehow managing the battle of his overpowering senses versus her own slipping sensibility, she quickened her pace.
She wrote a song that night, "One for the Stairs". It carried their moment of smell. His breath on her, hers held inside.
The lead vocalist was a wayward looking young girl with streaks of fancy colouring her mop of hair over her sharp jawline, an offshoot fashionista of weaves, knits, patterns and stitches, and an authority over her lyrics which behaved as if they would only perform to her tune. She was all of twenty one, and five feet one. But she had a towering presence over her followers, and was well followed. Other members of the band included the drummer, Sandip, with whom she frequently spent her nights, and the bass guitarist, Zico, who was her cousin. This other lead guitarist who also multi-functioned as the PR of the band as well as the backing vocals was Gautam, in love with Sruja. They were Streetfood. A crazy concoction of people creating some of the most popular urban music and covers the city had lately heard. Success is sometimes very crucial to a blinding arrogance, as opposed to popularity which can lead to responsibility.
Tired of the toss between love and lust, Sruja took a break and proposed a new album of twelve gorgeous songs, one outdoing the other. Evening after evening she professionally performed to her sedated best and thus arrived at the same evening of Azaan's taste. She beamed in her off-white saree and almost blouseless blouse. She held the microphone with the beauty of her bangles and suavely headbanged accompanied by the diamond dots flashing their occasional presence past her wild streaks. Her heels gave her the height of confidence with which she chanced upon him. His look was straight, converging right into her soul, with his gaze -- piercing. There was something unputdownable about him, something that made her wish to know him, know him better. Nothing happened thereafter. She went back to the arms of Sandip with that alluring gaze all over her thoughts.
She ached for the next Thursday and prayed he would be there. He was. She knew she could not waste this evening of not knowing him and strategically sang of her most devastatingly beautiful lyrics at him, "Your eyes made love to me / Your shadow touched mine / Songs flew / As did we / Together to the clouds". And smiled. He looked back, clapped in appreciation, walked out. She was not used to such a kind of lack of pursuit and took out her rage that night on Sandip's affection. She was frightfully empty.
Two weeks later she bumped into Azaan in the corridor of one of the more dignified clubs. He was seeing someone else out, his glass casually lolling in his hands. She had come for a game of squash. And childishly, smiled. He came very close to her, and whispered, "You look good even in sweat". That was unexpected. She smiled nervously and popped a half-baked sentence back. He then came dangerously close to her, and lurking near her shoulders, whispered, "Your words sing". That was the heaviest compliment she was ever paid, and the most unnerving. He smelled of Talisker, and understood what effect he was having on her.
"Would you like to join me?" he continued.
Carefully, and with a poised air, she refused, and walked away. Feeling the sensuous weight of his looks all over her, following her. And somehow managing the battle of his overpowering senses versus her own slipping sensibility, she quickened her pace.
She wrote a song that night, "One for the Stairs". It carried their moment of smell. His breath on her, hers held inside.
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