An encounter with music

It is in the most unlikely hours, and spaces that you stumble upon a story. A story that began with an encounter. It was neither night, nor morning. It was one of those suspended time zones. You could say wee hours of the morning. He sang on the other table. He sang to a girl, who sipped her tea, and kept smiling. They had been childhood friends. Another young man was with them. He looked as if he was deeply in love. He requested Nadeem Arshi to sing love songs, and hummed along.

That night, we had been talking about the usual stuff – state of journalism, and strangeness of relationships. Love, betrayal, and other such things. Things that confound me. Or elude me. Past midnight, we walked to the Nizamuddin shrine, and entered the alley where Zaki Hotel remains open until 2:30 am. They serve bheja fry, bread pakoras, chicken fry, and tea with a generous dose of malai in it, and is a refuge for those that forget to eat dinner.

We were three of us. A young journalist who had wanted to meet. Not that I could have shown him any path but tea is always an overrated thing. So, we had agreed upon tea. And another reporter friend.

Nadeem Arshi, an emaciated young man, who wears silver chains around his neck, and studs in his ears, told me he had a band. It is called Dynamic Star, he added.

For at least an hour, he sang songs for us. There was nobody upstairs except a few staff who were rolling joints before calling it a day. He told me about other bands in the area, and in Delhi. He spoke about his dreams, and his father. He told me he wrote his songs at the community center, and he said he feels that the patron saint of Nizamuddin will help him find his feet. Not that I can sing myself, or can tell if someone is singing well enough. But I could tell his voice had enigma. I wanted to know more. I have never been able to sing in front of strangers. But he did. And he was confident.

We exchanged numbers. I told him I was a reporter. I lived nearby, and I would call him soon.

He saw me once when he walked past me at the shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. He was doing his khidmat, and pulling a water cart. He said he had muttered salaam, but he was too shy. I never noticed him. It was one of those qawwali nights.

Some encounters you forget. Also, some promises.

But phone memory is eternal. While searching for a number, I came across his name. I called him. He remembered me. It had been months, and one winter afternoon we met him, and others. He didn't know what we did. But he would tell us his story. He would also make us meet others. During photo shoots, he would even hand his guitar over to another friend. Some people are just very earnest.

He wished me on Teddy Day. I didn't know how to thank him.

He is a lovely story, and a person. That's how some stories find us. In unlikely places, and at unusual hours. Not when you are looking for them.

About The Author

Chinki Sinha