Half Girlfriend (32 page)

Saturday and Sunday. Each table had rows for the various time slots.

The columns had the names of the singer, the venue and the kind of

music and ticket prices.The next two pages had details of each venue.

The remaining pages had a brief description of each singer, over a

hundred of them. I read the first one:
Abigail—Grew up in Boston,

degree in jazz music. Started out as a gospel singer. A fter singing in
Boston for two years, she moved to New York. Boston Globe called

her voice 'smooth velvet’ that can ‘calm your soul’.

I went through the names, mostly to pass time. I didn’t really

belong in my own party.

I skimmed through all the descriptions in the alphabetical list. I

ignored all the male singers.Twenty minutes later, I reached the letter

R.

Ray - A ‘sparkling new voice on the NY scene’ according to the

Village Voice, Ray would rather talk about ‘where she is going’ than

‘where she comes from. This tall exotic beauty ‘sings as good as she

looks ’ according to the Daily News.

I stopped at Ray’s description. I read it thrice. I flipped back to the

schedule to see Ray’s line-up. I looked under Saturday, which was

today. My index finger ran down the schedule page.

‘Blues, Soul and Contemporary, 10.00 p.m.-12.00 a.m. Stephanie,

Roger and Ray, Cafe Wha?, $8 entry, two drinks minimum,’

I turned the page to look up the details of Cafe Wha? and strained

hard to read the tiny print.

Cafe Wha? An old classic New York bar where many legends have

performed in their struggling days. Mexican and American food

options. 115 MacDougal Street, West Village. Subway 4, 5, 6.

Bleeckcr Street F, West 4th Street.

‘What are you doing, bro?’ Shailesh squeezed my shoulder hard.

‘Huh?’ I said, startled.

‘It’s your party. What the hell are you reading?’

I put the brochure aside and smiled.

‘Nothing. Just some touristy stuff,’ I said.

‘You’re not drinking?’ he said. He tapped his thigh in time with the

music.

‘No.You know me and alcohol.’

‘I can handle you at home. Wait, let me get a drink for you.’

Shailesh went to the bar. I checked the time on my phone. It said

11.05 p.m.

I googled Cafe Wha?’s number and called them.

They took thirty seconds to pick up. It seemed like an hour.

‘Hello. Cafe Wha?’ I heard a cheerful male voice, barely audible

due to the music in the background.

‘Hi, I am interested in the Music and Jazz Fest performance

tonight.’

‘Yes, it’s on now, sir. It’s an eight-dollar cover charge. Two drinks

minimum,’ the person on the other side recited his rehearsed stuff.

‘I wanted to know if there is a singer called Ray performing

tonight?’

‘Well, let me see. Yes, we have three singers. Hers is the last act.

Should be on any time now. Sir, I need to hang up. It’s really busy

here tonight, and I am one of the very few servers.’

‘Sorry, just one question. Is she there? Can you see her?’

‘Huh?’ the server said, confused. ‘Well, I do see the singers near

the stage. I think she is there.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘Sorry, sir, I hate to be rude but you want me to take your name

down for reservations or something? Can’t help you with much else.’

‘Yes,just one last thing. Does she look Indian? It’s really important.

Please.’

‘Hold on,’ the server said.

Shailesh came up to me as I was on hold. He gave me a glass of

champagne. I gestured a thanks to him. He gave me a puzzled look,

wondering who I was calling at this time.

The wait seemed endless.

‘Nothing, it is the travel agency who booked my return tickets,’ I

whispered to Shailesh, making up whatever I could on the spot.

‘This late?’ he said, surprised. I shrugged and excused inyself to

step aside.

‘Sir? You there?’The man was back.

‘Yes, yes. I am.’

‘She’s definitely not Caucasian white. She isn’t black either. She

could be Indian. Or I don’t know, she’s quite light-coloured, so maybe

Spanish or mixed-race. Sorry, I can’t...’

I interrupted him.

‘Thanks. That’s enough. I'm coming down. Can you hold a place

for one? I'm Madhav’

Maad-what?'

‘Just put me down as M. I’m coming.’

‘You better be here soon. The acts end at midnight.’

Shailesh stood right in front of me.

‘All okay with your ticket?’ he said.

‘Yeah. It's fine,' I said and paused before I spoke again. ‘Shailesh, I

need to get out,’

‘Wha...?’

‘Exactly,’ I said, ‘That’s where I need to go.’

‘Where?’

‘I need to get some fresh air.’

'Have you seen the snow outside? Where are you going?'

He pointed to his balcony. Blobs of snow covered the ledge.

Outside his apartment, a steady stream of snowflakes shot down from

the night sky.

‘I have a jacket,’ I said.

Shailesh looked bewildered by my sudden desire for a night stroll.

‘Madhav, what do I tell the guests?’ he said.

‘They will barely notice,’ I said and left.

44

I stepped out of the apartment building. Cold winds slashed at my

face. My phone showed the time as 11.12 p.m. and a temperature of 20

degrees Fahrenheit, or -6.6 degrees Celsius. People were all bundled

up in gloves, caps and jackets, i saw a group of four friends walk

towards the 86th Street subway ahead of me.

Fresh snow had made the pavements powdery and white. The

group of four and 1 reached the subway stop. We took the steps down

to the metro. Some African-Americans were coming up the steps.

‘It’s not coming, woo hoo, no train tonight...’ said one of them in a

drunk voice.

‘How am I going to get my ass to Brooklyn?’ his friend said.

‘A hundred-dollar cab ride, baby. That ass deserves it,’ another

friend said. They all laughed.

I reached the customer services counter. A plump African-

American lady from the Metropolitan Transit Authority, or MTA, sat

inside. She made an announcement into a microphone.

‘Ladies and gentleman, due to heavy snow, we are experiencing

huge delays on all lines. A train is stalled in the network near Grand

Central. We are trying to remedy the problem. We suggest alternative

travel arrangements.’

I checked the station clock: 11.19 p.m.

Google Maps suggested the subway would have taken me to

Bleecker Street in seventeen minutes. From there, it was a nine-minute

walk to the cafe.

‘How much delay?’ I asked the customer service officer.

‘Who knows, honey,’ she said. ‘It’s snow. Half an hour, an hour,

two hours. Take your pick.’

I ran up the steps and came out of the station. Cold air sneaked in

under the jacket’s collar and down my neck.The road had little traffic.

I waited but no empty cab went past.

I asked a passer-by, ‘I need to go to the West Village urgently.

Where can I get a cab?’

'Want one myself.’

I checked the time: 11.25 p.m.

‘Walk west to Fifth Avenue.You will hit Central Park. Try there,’

someone said.

I took rapid strides to Fifth Avenue. I reached the periphery of

Central Park, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Amber lights lit

up the museum building. The falling snowflakes created a soft-focus

effect.

Time: 11.31 p.m.

If I didn’t get a cab, I would not be able to reach West Village

before midnight. I couldn’t see any cabs. I looked up at the sky to

pray. Snowflakes fell on my face.

God, please, please
, I said.

I looked around me. At least six more people waited for cabs. My

heart sank. I wanted to cry.

One cab, please
, I said, waiting for magic to happen.

No cabs.

Time: 11.34 p.m.

I reopened Google Maps. I checked the distance from my current

location at the Met Museum to Cafe Wha? and chose the pedestrian

option.

It displayed this: Walk 4.0 mi, 1 h 10min

The route was simple. I had to go straight down south on Fifth

Avenue for 3.8 of the 4 miles, and then turn right.

‘Four miles. 6.4 kilometres,’ I mumbled to myself.

An hour and ten minutes to walk, I thought. If I ran, it would be

less. If I ran like a mad dog with a pack of wolves chasing it, even

lesser.

‘Madhav Jha,’ I whispered to myself.‘Run.’

I remembered basketball. We used to run and dribble on court all

the time.

A basketball court is not the same as six-and-a-half kilometres in

minus six degrees temperature,
my sensible mind scoffed.

‘Don’t think. Don’t listen to sense. Just run,’ I told myself and took

off.

I ran so fast my surroundings became hazy. Central Park on my

right and posh Upper East Side homes on my left whizzed past. My

face became numb in the cold air. The jacket began to feel heavy as

snow started to seep inside.

I had already spent the entire day walking, whether it was for

shopping, walking over to Madison Square Garden or back to

Shailesh’s home. I had not eaten much all day either. My legs began to

hurt.

‘C’mon Madhav,’ I panted, ‘c’mon.’

Sometimes, when nobody is by your side, you have to become

your own cheering squad.

I faked a dribble. It made me go ahead to catch my imaginary ball.

I checked the street sign: 67th Street. Cafe Wha? was near 4th.

'Don’t look at street signs. Just run, Madhav,’ I said aloud.

I passed a hotel on my left on 60th Street. It had an Indian flag

hanging above the main porch.

‘The Pierre: A Taj Hotel,’ a sign said.

The Indian flag unleashed a fresh wave of energy in me.

‘Run,’ I said to myself. ‘You can do this.’

I reached the most famous part of Fifth Avenue, with designer

stores on both sides.Tiffany’s was on 57th Street, Louis Vuitton on

51st. Riya’s journals had mentioned these brands.

On 50th Street, I developed a nasty cramp in my stomach. I had to

stop. I sat down in a squat and took a few deep breaths.

Time: 11.44 p.m.

‘Damn. There is no time. Feel the pain later,’ I told myself.

I couldn’t move. I scanned the street for cabs. Nothing. I winced in

pain.

On my right, I saw the NBA store. The store was shut. It had a

huge poster of Kobe Bryant outside.‘NBA—where amazing happens,’

it said.

‘C’mon, Madhav. Be amazing.’

I stood up. Without thinking, I started to run again.

My legs and abdomen screamed with pain. My nose felt like ice.

However, my head felt like fire. I ran, almost jumped with every

stride, and looked straight ahead. Snow was in my sneakers, turning

my feet cold and wet.

‘Run, run, run,’ I whispered with every breath I reached a dead

end at Washington Square Park.

‘I’m close. Right turn from here.’

Time: 11.56 p.m.

I wanted to rest for a minute.

‘No rest,’ I scolded myself.

I turned right and ran.

The noise of music and the crowd outside made me stop.

Cafe Wha? The lit-up sign greeted me with its bright yellow letters.

I pumped my fists.

45

I plonked my elbows on the ushers desk outside. I tried to speak.

Snow fell out of my mouth.

‘M,’ I gasped. ‘I booked a place for Mr M.’

I bent to cough. As my body shook, bits of snow fell off me.

‘Easy there, M. Are you all right?’

I nodded.

‘Your lips are purple.They may fall off, buddy,’ the usher said.

I rubbed my hands and placed them on my mouth. Cold hands did

little to warm up an even colder face.

The usher went through his register.

‘Mr M, yes. But the show is almost ending. It’s midnight. Last song

probably.’

Time: 12.01 a.m.

‘The singer is still there, right?’ I said, still huffing and puffing as I spoke.

‘Hull? Yeah, maybe just doing a bonus song or something. Entry is

eight dollars, two drinks minimum. You sure?’

I slapped a twenty-dollar bill on his desk and walked in. I reached

the bar area.

‘Your two drinks, sir?’ said a female bartender.

'Water and water.’

She gave me two bottles of water. I chugged them down in a flash.

‘Where is the performance?’ I said.

‘Straight left to the concert area. Follow the music.’

I limped ahead. My legs had given way. I held on to bar stools and

i hairs to keep myself from falling.

The concert area was a dimly lit room filled with people. The

crowd in front of me prevented me from seeing the stage.

I elbowed my way through the hordes of people to get ahead.

I heard a female voice.

'You’re beautiful. You're beautiful.

You're beautiful, it's true.'

The bright spotlight on the stage contrasted with the dark room. It

took a few seconds to spot the singer.

It was her.

Riya.

The water bottle fell from my hand.

She sang with her eyes closed, completely engrossed in the song.

In a full-length, sequined black gown she looked more beautiful than

what even God would define as beautiful.

Yes, Riya Somani, I found you.

She held an acoustic guitar in her hand. A male American pianist