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.
My first post has to be about music as I must confess that before I fell in love with literature, I fell hard and fast for the process of making music. Obsessed, I spent hours between bands as they jammed, waiting for them to transition, from non-descript underdogs to musical geniuses. 9 out of 10 times, it never happened. Here I attempt to understand what makes most underground musicians in Delhi fail in the long run. Is it the drug fuelled idealism, artistic exploration or a little bit of both?