N O T E

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In the fabric of this universe, I feel you–as if we are being pulled and sewn together by a cosmic thread.

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MONDAY,  OCTOBER 17

Last weekend, in the history of weekends, has sped past me with the speed of light. Before I could soak into the moments as if each were a warm and fragrant bubble bath, Monday and with it, the Monday blues were here. During the course of the sixty hours that have passed since Zaahid's visit, I have received fifteen "gentle" reminders.

Taking things into my own hands and seeing Persistent Zaahid—the probability of not going along with the plan seems slim—I had convinced a rather surprised Gia to merge my commitments for tomorrow to today. The last one on the list for today was Maira Ahluwalia's Magnificent Assemblies—a fun meet-n-greet and secret hearing assembly for a curated group of fans around the world. Using it as a crutch I am very hopeful of taking a rain check on Zaahid. Very.

The music is loud as thunder; it makes the cutlery on the tabletops rattle. Pink-purple lights flash wherever like police sirens, yet significantly more beautiful. The bass thump in time with my heartbeat as though they are one, filling me from head to toe with music. Over the roar of music, I hear the distant, hazy chatter of the fans. Laughter rings in my ears and doesn't seem to stop. Love Let Me Behind–my debut single from the debut album–Onirique (french for surreal/dreamy)–plays and I am swamped up by a sea of fans, engulfed in unconditional and pure love.

We're dancing and jumping in a huddled group like Tic-Tacs being shaken in a box. The dance floor is invisible; it is wall-to-wall people trying to enact the latest dance moves off of reels. There are crazy antic moves, twisting and turning, holding hands as we change sides. We are all grins; happy and more alive than we could ever be.

Amidst the music, the food and the dancing I feel a huge wave of nausea wash over me. Like a really cruel joke, awareness stems in me as to how far I have come. I taste the bitter flavours of the reminiscences of the past from where I started.

My Ultimate Sing-Off audition was on a fine, sunny morning in March 2016. I had no desire to give it, but there I stood on the stage, having been brutally dragged down from my bed by Venus. That's how it usually was with Venus. She always had her way.

We first met in Newcastle. My flight from India had just landed, and I was wandering the streets looking for the hotel I had reserved. If I do say so myself, I made a rather chaotic entrance.

I, Miss Butterfingered, had spilt coffee over myself while tripping over the footpath and throwing my luggage all over the road—to say I hadn't lived up to the name of my house, Miss Maira Ahluwalia from the House Of Clumsyville, would be an understatement of the year. The fact that my phone died because I was drooling too much over Paul Wesley was the icing on the cake, and I did get brownie points for leaving my tourist map at the EU Immigration Portal window. As a result, I only had the name of the hotel I needed to visit, and in every sense of the word, I was lost.

Nobody would help me because I resembled a beggar with far too much baggage. As a motorbike sped past where I had stood, a hand wrapped around my arm and pulled me away from the road.

"Oh! Thank you so much," I turned around to thank the stranger. She was my age, with fiery orange curly hair that fell just below her ears. Her eyebrow and nose ring stuck out on her dark skin. She was dressed in ripped black leather pants and an off-white blouse.

"Wait, what did you think you were doing?" Her husky voice had questioned me harshly. She misinterpreted my stance as a failed suicide attempt and continued to label me as careless and a coward for even considering it.

I had braced a bandwagon series of cuss words for her. I remember it as clear as day, even today. Still, I apologized, for what exactly I still am not quite sure. She had been so overbearing. She looked frustrated, angry even. Apart from a silly girl standing in the middle of the road, jamming the traffic who she thought needed rescuing, what had I done? And it turned out I did need rescuing from my soiled clothes stained from coffee. Oh, Maira...are you ever going to live this down?

After her rant was over and she noticed me gathering my luggage, she exclaimed and realised I was new to town. To hide her embarrassment, she overcompensated by coaxing me and going out of her way to assist me. "I–I'm so sorry. That was very rude of me."

"I can help you," she said, holding one of my bags. Please let me know where you're going."

It took me five seconds to weigh the pros and cons. I could see no reason why she was being so nice to me; after all, I was just a brunette-haired, plain-looking foreigner but she was also the only person who had agreed to help. And I needed one of those badly.

Three hours later, we sat across one another at Cantino Ridge's table sipping hot mugs of expensive vanilla coffee after dropping off my things at her place and cleaning myself. We were exhausted from tirelessly and hopelessly wandering the city in search of my hotel—it turns out that looking for a place with many namesakes is a futile effort.

"Venus," she had introduced herself after wiping out the foam moustache from her mouth.

"Maira."

Despite our nonsense chitter-chatter, I had felt the awkwardness between us unfolding because I had barely said a word. To be honest, I had no idea what I was supposed to say. Secretly, my brain was on "high alert" and couldn't help but imagine her lunging at me and slicing my throat. But Venus was a talker. She stumbled from one topic to the next, pausing briefly in between to catch her breath.

We discovered that we were both students at the same university, where she was studying architecture and I was studying civil engineering. Her eyes sparkled at that and she invited me to a get-together dinner at her place for her classmates and to spend the night—an offer that was too good to decline. The way she spoke with such light in her eyes, and her constant need to hold my hand between conversations—as if to ensure I wasn't just a figment of her imagination—kept me in my seat and one mug of coffee turned into three with a side of sherry trifle.

Slowly, I was swept up in her exuberance too, in the tiny space of warmth and easy friendship, like a square of sunshine falling on the cold winter floor.

"Go! You can do it." Venus had whispered from the wings as I stood in the middle of the stage under the yellow spotlight. Stage fright had consumed me. My legs were shaking violently. My heart was thumping erratically, ready to fall out any second.

"Hi! What's your name?" Someone from the Judges' table had asked. I dared not look up, afraid of the distinguished panel and of their intimidating stares, knowing all too well that whatever courage remained would turn to dust.

Despite being someone who was almost into every extra-curricular activity at school and in college, I had stuttered to introduce myself. Without further ado, I announced that I would perform A Thousand Years by Christina Perri.

"Great! Ready when you are," Stephan said.

Stephan Collins is mostly recognized as a judge on the British TV talent competition series. He owns his own television and music publishing house–Collins Telefilm and Music Productions. He was also known for making blunt comments about contestants and their abilities, which did little to alleviate my anxiety. Megan Stasey and Caitlin Follows both won multiple Grammys and were pioneers in the rock and pop music scenes, respectively.

My gaze strayed for a split second too long from the panel to the guests–the boy band, Symphony Thrills, consisting of Nolan Prescott, Harry Spencer and Zaahid Noori. The biggest accomplishment of prior seasons of Ultimate Sing-Off had always been the formation of this band, forged by Stephan.

As I held the microphone, I was overcome with anxiety. My jaw clenched. My hands had moistened; blood had rushed in my ears and my pulse skyrocketed. In a crowd that was dead silent, Venus was the first to cheer and hoot for me. I had flushed at her waywardness, but my subconscious was dancing in her red hula skirt at the prospect of being the cynosure of her admiration.

Before I could hit the first note, an ill-feeling tightness had dipped its sticky fingers into my stomach and I felt the weight of an anchor choking me, dragging down the words I had practised over and over again in the mirror of my dorm's bathroom. Shaking my head and trying to calm myself, I sang "I have died every day waiting for you, darling don't be afraid I have loved you, for a thousand years; I'll love you for a thousand more." I flushed crimson.

As I sang, I knew why I didn't want to audition; because my life had been a series of bullet points of things done and accomplished, as well as things yet to be done. There had never been any room for risk, rejection, or even possible failure in my meticulously calculated and planned life. The dreaded 'what if' didn't exist for me because I never stepped into the waters that would lead to it. I simply did not. That's how I'd been raised—as a project.

Standing there took all of my courage. You've got this. I mentally declared, my voice slightly too high, betraying my desire to sound as natural, uninterested, and calm as possible despite my hormones wrecking havoc. But feigning confidence seemed to be one difficult square to circle. I kept my eyes on Stephan. His reassuring smile was a confidence booster.

Halfway through the song, I became more at ease with the atmosphere of the stage and became more present in my performance. With a burning desire to prove myself or to successfully complete a task (such as auditioning and being chosen), I needed an 'extra' oomph to set me apart from the crowd. I decided to act out the lyrics in the spur of the moment. I nailed the forlorn lover's stance. All sad and broody like the music. I moved around the stage and covered every corner of it. With the final words, I was on the edge of the song and in the centre of the stage, my eyes bright with ecstatic triumph for a job well done.

The room erupted in claps and whistles. There were a few standing ovations as well. Stephan was one of those. "Well, the audience has spoken for itself," a very proud boy with green eyes, dimples and brown curls–aka Harry Spencer–from the Symphony Thrills boy band spoke.

"Thank you," I said mentally, doing my victory dance and showing off my perfect cartwheels to the high gentry of cloud nine. That was the only place I thought I could do cartwheels. I couldn't stop the smile that was forming on my lips.

"You're here to make history." Stephan took his seat and carefully spoke to ensure I understood the gravitas of his statement. "Mark my words." My breath hitched.

From somewhere nearby, a familiar rhythm of music is blaring through the speakers. It is tugging me back to the present but I can only hear the ringing of noises from the past. Like some vestiges left from another life. Stephan was right. History I did make. A few months after the show, I signed a record deal with Collins Telefilm and Music Productions which gave birth to my debut platinum album and whose songs were currently filling the room.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, you might want to take a look at this," Dave, who heads my security, walks over while I was signing autographs on shirts and hands of fans.

I nod and peel away from the crowd. "We're also well past the allocated time. We should wrap up," Dave suggests.

Pulling my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I check the time. It's past twelve. Yes! Avoiding Zaahid is going to be easy-peasy lemon squeezy. Still, I take my own sweet time to tie up the event. I gather everyone around. "Thank you so much for taking out time to come meet me. I love you all very much." I say with only gratitude and love in my heart. I am huddled by hugs. The next twenty minutes are spent in some more photos, autographs, hugs, kisses and goodbyes.

"Please enjoy the canapés! I hear the chef has curated special french dishes." I politely appease the fans and leave the room.

Dave leads me to my green room. Zaahid haughtily sits in the chair. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. "Thank you, Dave, I'll take it from here," I say and close the door behind me.

My phone rings and I pull it out. I look up to meet Zaahid's eye. It's him. He's calling me across the room.  I feel a shiver of unease. "That would be today's fourth call that you've deliberately ignored," Zaahid spoke with an eerie calm.

I walk to the mini-fridge and pour a glass of water but it isn't cold enough to quench the angst Zaahid has bubbled. I add ice and speak with a personal detachment, "It's been a busy day–"

"I thought I had made myself very clear," he interrupts. He's irritated by me and I have barely spoken. We're off to a great start!

"You think this is a joke?!" The specific quiver in his voice is so familiar it jumps out from his body language as if it was my own name: Taybah Noori.

I remain silent and wait. It takes ages. I wonder if he was going to say it. But then, finally, his body goes still.

"You see this?" he holds up his phone. "Read it!"

Yep. She can surprise us. Any. Damn. Minute. I do not like the tone of that message. It sounds so fake. So Taybah. AMA's! That's next month! Does this mean she will be here until then? Holy Moly. My subconscious has fainted and so have I.

"Yes," I say in a neutral tone. It's important to maintain the pretence that his mother is not a touchy subject, not at all, and that I'm not trying to change the subject or, God forbid, offer comfort or sympathy.

"I told you," said Zaahid. "I knew this day would come."

"Did you?" I sigh, not wanting to air Zaahid's pride, "Huh. Well. That's going to be very...interesting." I run a hand through my hair.

Taybah follows a pattern. Every anniversary, she pays us a visit. As a result, we usually anticipate her and are well-prepared. Zaahid would call me an hour before she arrived, and I would join the celebration in his living room—that was my limit: living room. I was supposed to arrive before she did, laugh with our friends, catch up with his family, and leave after she did, which was always an hour or so later. There was no time for more interactions; no spending nights or mornings. But this time, we're on our toes. Zaahid has foreseen the possibility of a trap, so I'm being implored.

"You have the keys?" Zaahid asks, getting up from the chair.

"Yeah."

"I'm sure–" he begins but his phone rings at this ungodly hour. In the pin-drop silence of the room, I hear the jingles of charm bracelets, clonks of heels, giggles and whispers. Zaahid takes a long pause. He looks up at me and continues, "I'm sure you know the way..."

Before I can protest, he abruptly adds, like he isn't sure himself. "I need to head out for work, don't wait for me for dinner."

"Do you hear yourself?" I bow my head and squeeze the bridge of my nose, considering the absurdity. "You're desperate to get me home, but you're not coming?" Also, what about my dinner? You know I can't cook. I mean to add, but I don't voice it. In that instance, I wonder how much damage the years have done to us.

"It's work. I might be late," Zaahid hurriedly says and rushes out the door as if whoever was waiting for him on the call was too prized to not attend to. Just like that.

I stomp my foot in pure frustration.

☸︎ ☸︎ ☸︎

I arrive at Zaahid's house at two a.m. after a quick round trip to Cambridge with a packed suitcase. Fortunately, I was also able to pick up the mail—a couple of photographs—that had been delivered that evening. I dash for the fridge, hoping to find a meal, but all I find are fresh fruits and cereals. The food delivery apps are no longer available, and I'm too tired to make an effort so I settle for a banana.

I switch off the lights and turn on my side. I exhale a huge breath. Thank God Zaahid had chosen to work tonight of all nights, it would be a distraction for those damned photos.

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N O T E

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There's nothing in the world that can trouble you as much as your own thoughts.

"Never thought we'd ever have to go without, take you over anybody else, hands down. We're the type of melody that don't fade out, can't fade out. Didn't I, didn't I, didn't I love you? Didn't we, didn't we, didn't we fly? Know that I, know that I still care for you, But didn't we, didn't we say goodbye?" Song: Didn't I by OneRepublic

Please drop me a comment or a vote if you think this deserves it and give me a chance to improve. Love and light, M

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