Your Bandwagon of Cool

                                                                           1

One of these days, on an enchanted evening we sat in open air. Above us, God’s skillful hands created magic from the heavens as the sun bade adieu. Colors, warm beautiful hues spilled forth in a clear summer sky. The fiery reds and the balmy yellows blended and spread generously, making room for a hint of purple here and there. The purples became deeper as the moments passed, and soon paved way for an even, unending dark blanket of blue. Together, we watched the sky at play. We sat wondering when the concert would begin.

The round, Greek amphitheatre-esque venue had brick steps instead of seats. The stairs descended from all sides into a round platform where a mundane stage was set. Fluorescent lights were focused and refocused till perfect, illuminating the arena in rich neon greens. Black silhouettes traveled back and forth, carrying heavy instruments from a minivan to the stage. One of them tested the screeching mikes as an open challenge to our eardrums. But the setting was breathtaking- the lights glistened and flicked ever so slightly, caressing the stage and the gallery above. As a soothing breeze blew to match the surroundings the seats filled up quickly. The venue was soon overflowing with excited chatter from all sides.

The cool night air twirled around each of the nameless faces in the gallery, tying them together into the same palpable anticipation. Mostly strangers, they were pulled collectively to the same event. Looking down at the stage occasionally, their faces conveyed a mixture of excitement and impatience at the countless unfamiliar people on all sides.

Enclosed safely in our own little bubble, we, a mess of fervent teens remained completely oblivious to the world outside. Cars continued to screech by demanding the attention of the mob but inevitably went unnoticed; the whine of their engines dying into the blurred night. Badam-wallahs and popcorn-boys were definitely the busiest that night, as possible customers yelled for refreshments from almost every step of the gallery. Even in the midst of all the commotion, a small voice from behind did not escape my notice- “It’s all over the internet, their fanpage confirmed it too. It’s the guy’s first show tonight.” I pretty much whirled around to face a younger boy who seemed to excuse my bizarre reflexes with a smile.

“It’s Requiem, apu” he explained animatedly “If nothing goes wrong then they’re introducing a new member tonight!” he said, and got busy explaining the same to everyone else who asked. Word travels faster than light, they say; and proving it correct, the crowd soon seemed to discuss nothing else. After all it was Requiem, one of the more popular bands in the underground scene. But a question lingered on everyone’s mind - who would they accommodate in their already strong, well-organized lineup?

When the babble of the crowd had more or less ceased, there was a stir in the front rows. The two sets of doors on the makeshift stage were both temptingly agape. Lights thrummed from the opening, on and off, on and off. Lights set up around the stage changed colors from blue to green to yellow. Those at the front could just see into the entrance and eye the security guards over, both of them significantly bigger than any of the onlookers. Like lions, they breathed heavily and bristled threateningly under the wary gaze. A quick announcement on the microphone soon claimed the crowd’s undivided attention. And then silence fell, a hush almost overwhelming.

The silence was kept for only a second. There was stillness... And then…

A cheer tore through the calm, reigniting the buzz in the air. A metallic melody soared from the stage, closely followed by an epic bass line, a heavy drum beat. Someone began to sing- an unmistakable growl of the celebrated lead vocal. ‘Hemlock’ had taken the stage by storm. I am a lucky girl tonight, I mused.

The whole, chaotic evening had been in preparation for this one moment. In this moment, we strangers are woven together by freedom; a freedom in the expression of music. But eager fans, including me, had one final attraction to witness - the mighty Requiem and their brand new surprise.

2

I glanced at the concert leaflet clasped tight in my hand. By then two other bands after Hemlock had performed and left the stage. When the lights flashed yellow I skimmed through the day’s lineup - Requiem was on number four.

Let’s see what you guys have found.

For a moment, it seemed that time had simply stopped then and there. Some of my friends had tried stirring up a conversation, but nobody was in a mood to talk. Popcorn and cola was passed from this end to that, sometimes to complete strangers. Those few moments had tied us together in friendship, in undivided attention, in longing and in restlessness. But then there was an announcement, and some silhouettes- five of them, emerged from behind the makeshift doors.

The five original, ever so awesome members of Requiem.

A large group to my right had already started to hoot at the top of their voice.

Then a sixth figure was seen emerging from the backstage.

Louder hoots this time, followed by a few excited, girly screams. This new member took careful steps, consulted with a senior nearby and slowly advanced to take center stage. A yellow spotlight was focused directly, and solely on him. Yellow phosphorescence flooded his entire being.

For a moment, nobody spoke. All eyes were on this rather tall, slender boy of about my age. Like the rest of his band-mates, he was dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. Long dark hair, long for a boy’s standards, reached his shoulder and created a sharp contrast with his ghostly pale skin. A rather strange looking instrument case hung from his shoulder, a case that he soon got busy rummaging. Out came a long, thin and silvery stick- as if a magician’s wand at the ready. The crowd gasped as they found out who he was; a person unlike any other- the flutist of a metal band.

Fred the lead guitarist held his guitar tighter, ready to play an accompaniment. The new guy exchanged a quick nod with him and took the flute to his lips.

Isara

A silent, spellbound audience seemed to breathe in this newly created ambience. In those few moments his flute told us tales - tales of sights unseen, of words unspoken. His expert fingers closed just the right opening at just the right time; hence a smooth, flawless melody swept us off our feet. Magic seemed to have finally found a place with us, magic and nothing else.

But unlike other flutists he did not sever ties with his audience; he kept his eyes wide open. He gazed at his now captivated listeners, trying to scan every nook and corner of the amphitheater. He was apparently reading faces, expressions, thoughts - everything. It was probably something in-built, an urge to read people’s faces. But at one point, his furtive eyes stopped their seemingly unending search.

His eyes met mine.

I had never felt so exposed, so ‘caught in the act’ in my entire life. Truth to be told, I was gaping at him too. It was rude to stare; quite the school-time lesson I had been taught. Except this time, some two hundred other eyes were doing the same. Like a deer at the headlights I was flustered, my frightened eyes in a desperate search for cover. However, his remained fixed on mine; and I read, what looked unmistakably, like a smile in them.

Encouragement?

The flutist’s captivating solo performance followed a deafening roar from our end. His five legendary seniors took turns in patting his back, and then Fred whispered something in his ear. Another ‘nod’ took place; the new guy took center stage again and mumbled a shy greeting to his mesmerized fans. A name was revealed, an identity, an existence. As if a flimsy explanation was given to a great mystery, merely a phenomenon. And then there was a smile; a melancholy smile which was directly and unquestionably, at me.

Other songs had started in full swing. These were Requiem’s popular tracks destined to become all-time greats; from the thought-provokers to the revolution - enkindlers, the party-starters and the stadium-shakers. Our new flutist was the perfect fit in this already perfect band. Perfection was taken to a whole new level in just one night. Everything fell into place as the music continued to captivate, to enthrall and exhilarate. In the midst of all that, a pair of grey eyes followed my every move. I delved into his eyes that were now an open book, and a curtain lifted.

His cold grey eyes emitted a warmth unknown to many. Yet a hunger, a longing rested there. As if in some part of his smiling eyes he hid a forlorn tale. As if he were helpless, heartbroken, torn to pieces. Perhaps he had loved one day, perhaps he had some place to go home to. But something fell apart; something went missing in those batting false lashes. Perhaps the eyes that he would seek comfort in wanted to look elsewhere for a change. Maybe they were too smoky, too ‘cut-creased’, too busy and too tired of his presence. Smoke, ugly grey smoke filled his life slowly. Smoke came from dry ice, from smoke machines, from sheesha, from betrayal. Soon he had trouble fitting in; a trouble more troublesome than most teenage troubles. ‘Fitting in’ became more than just an everyday chore, and love seemed to disappear in a floodlight of success.

He was lonely, he was cold. He was stuck in a realm of illusions. Illusions of fame everywhere.

And he needed a savior.

His eyes pinned me to the ground, threw countless questions my way. I was almost up on my feet; I was ready to give anything to be by his side. But then…

My eyes saw something that night that I would never have seen before. They saw inability, my own inability to challenge what made him suffer. The hundred something people that swayed to his music had fallen prey to it, so had I, so had everyone else. It was a difference, yet more than a difference. A difference between the cool and the uncool, the dreamy and the practical, the revolution-starters and the onlookers.

I realized that I was helpless in a world of illusions, where everything had a stereotype. A little different and boom!- an instant label of ‘misfit’ seemed to coil around your throat by an invisible noose. Love and betrayal go hand in hand in this world of make-believe; ‘trust’ hides itself in closed spaces as the vices bask in limelight. A bandwagon of cool roams the streets of my city, a wagon we all want to board. But once on board there is no getting down, no going home to ones values; to oneself.

His eyes remained fixated in mine, still searching for some hope in my mundane brown ones. I simply lowered my defeated gaze.

The Artful Dodger

“I'm actually planning to give up smoking for one last time”

“Huh?” I raised an eyebrow, for I knew this guy all too well. In twenty six years of life he has made countless such promises to himself and all his friends, nineteen times to be precise. So with a chuckle and an ‘oh dear Lord’ expression, I hid my face behind a dog-eared magazine.

However, there was no deterring him with sarcasm. Once started, Rishad was unstoppable “I have a simple enough plan, hey. Every time I want to smoke, I’ll go to the tong, buy a banana and a bun…” which comes to about the same price, he told me in an undertone “and give it to some kid to watch him eat it. With that feeling of contentment, I’ll go my own way” I snickered as he smiled from ear to ear.

The humidity of Dhaka was at its worst that day, making sensitive people literally forget how to breathe. Suffocated and coaching-battered as I was, there was only one thing I could pray for- rain. But sometimes, prayers are answered a bit too late. By the time it started raining, here I was; sitting across my polar opposite in a cozy little café. This friend of mine is a self proclaimed free thinker, an underground rockstar, a poet and five years older than me. I on the other hand, choose to wear a salwar kameez in a room full of miniskirt and tank top clad mannequins.

“With your reputation and everything, this mohapurush method will never work. So keep weird thoughts aside and think of what to write for the mag.” Yes, this is how we are friends; we write for the same magazine.

“You don’t believe me, eh kid? Here’s a little demonstration. Observe” Rishad’s facial expression was changing bit by bit, probably an urge to smoke. I followed him to the exit when I realized- “No umbrella, what now?” It was then I caught sight of them, four street urchins playing in the heavy downpour. The plastic bags and tattered rucksacks covering their makeshift huts should have kept water at bay, but soon became an abode of innumerable water droplets. Through the watery windows of the café I could make out their shriveled silhouettes running around in a complete frenzy. Even in the midst of their apparent frenzy, the smallest boy in the group artfully picked an unaware office-goer’s pocket. “The Artful Dodger” I said a bit too loudly when Rishad interrupted my chain of thought “Oliver Twist? You and your Charles Dickens references….now stay here and watch”. A little rain doesn’t hurt, I thought, and followed him outside.

A humble tong always made better business than a posh café- never have I seen an exception to that. On a rainy day however, people would rather catch the first bus than sit around on tea stall benches. The cha-wallah was rather intimidated by the pot bellied, enormous bear I had brought along, so it was I who asked for the banana and bun in a reassuring ‘it’s okay, he’s harmless’ tone. I felt a little overly generous so with a quick “My treat!” at Rishad, I absent mindedly felt my way through my sling bag for money. A few ten taka notes would have popped out, except my bag felt nothing like the usual canvas; more like tender human skin.

The alien hand squirmed and writhed in my grip, but my persistence was no match for the malnourished little thing. Still holding tight, I made its owner go around the bench to face me. No surprises when the infamous ‘Artful Dodger’, the little pickpocket faced me with knobby knees. “What was that about?” I asked, as if I didn’t know what it was about- survival.

“Apa, please forgive me? Never again” was the reply- rehearsed, calm and collected. My friend sitting on the other bench prompted him, and the words came flowing from the little guy’s heart-

“My mother’s no more, father remarried. I live in my sister and her husband’s makeshift polythene hut on the railway tracks over there” Lutfur, our Artful Dodger reminded me of Pip at this point. When asked why he picked pockets, there was a smirk on his face. Indeed, laughing at those just-robbed, clueless faces was not only justified, but also human. However, he quickly hid that slight hint of amusement and carried on- “I went to work too, janen bhaiya? The work was making pipes on a machine and cutting polythene. I cut my hand, see? Stealing is ‘upori paowa’ apa, you can’t really resist”- Lutfur’s honest confession.

We expected to see a small cut, something that any child could endure. But what we saw was a missing finger. “Still better than being maimed to beg” he declared.

Lutfur might have been a bit quicker, cheekier than other kids, but all his cunning and experience was backed by untold misery. These streets, these hostile unforgiving streets had no place for the righteous Oliver Twist. ‘Survival of the fittest’ says natural selection, and the unwritten iron code of this concrete jungle knows no other law.  

Dickens’ The London slums had a suffocating, infernal aspect; the dark deeds and passions lingered in dim rooms and pitch-black nights, while the governing mood of terror and brutality stood sentinel in the cutting cold. When the half-starved child dared to ask for more, the men who punished him were fat. Today, after two hundred years London is devoid of slums. British ecstasy is at its peak; revolving around the Queen and her triumphant hatboxes. But here in a country of all-possible, street children remained as they were. Their misery, their tales of struggle is a two hundred year old legacy- only worse. Our slums are humid, merciless, filthy abodes of ‘lesser beings’. ‘Brown sahibs’ I muttered under my breath, that’s who we are.

“If it bothers you so much…” began a little voice inside my head, but I checked it with a sharp hiss. For now, I looked on as the Artful Dodger became the lab-rat of a rich kid’s whimsical experiment.