The Hope Factory A Novel - By Lavanya Sankaran Page 0,51

sugar-pop, soda-pop songs of that era. She seemed oblivious to the sacredness of the moment, her head whirling, dervish-like, as she registered who else was present, which friends she could wave to and what their plans were post-concert; friends, like her, who were there not for the music but simply because it was a concert, that hitherto rare thing, a place therefore to see and be seen. But the powerful magic charms of the evening soon overcame Anand’s momentary irritations: the contained energies of the crowd, the air of suppressed reverence, the pulsating excitement that swung sharply up to a boil when the first musicians walked onto the stage, the heat from the lights and the audience tussling with the cool winds of the night, and the dust that rose from the large concert grounds, so improbably situated in the Bangalore Palace compound.

“Oh, look,” said his wife, “there’s so-and-so and such-and-such….”

The music exploded from the speakers; Anand felt a surge of something that could only be happiness; on the face of the man standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder, there was an echo of that same demented smile he wore, and moisture on his cheeks, either sweat or tears, an old aching sweetness in him, an homage to the musical passions of a much younger, collegiate self, who had listened to this music all night long, stoned and sober, and had wondered what it would be like to listen to it live, to breathe the same air as these gods, knowing also that, for the likes of him and the world he lived in, these were not choices they would ever have. But a miracle of time and they were here: a gift from a city that had changed beneath him. Deities of music, singing just for him, taking the money and the adulation the worshipful city placed at their feet. Roger Waters, long-faced, long-nosed, long-toothed, small-eyed; a thoroughly alien physiognomy that was never quite how Anand had imagined the face of god to be.

“Standing for so long was so tiring,” Vidya later said, “they should have provided some seats. But the concert was quite nice,” she said, glancing at his face. “It was so fantastic! What music! I loved it!” she said to Amir, Amrita, and the other friends they met later for dinner.

The previous weekend, a new band had been playing a mixture of electronica and funk at his favorite music club. They were very good, but Anand wondered if he was on the edge of being too old to enjoy it, whether his classic-rock-trained ears could ever truly adapt. Luckily, and he had checked with the bar manager, the follow-up band would be playing some old rock covers.

He liked this place; it was not glossy but dedicated to good music and to the small indie bands that toured the country searching for listeners. Vidya occasionally agreed to come with him; she was not musically inclined, but several of her friends were; that night she was circulating about the room. He finished his beer and looked around for the waiter—and then saw Kavika at the far end of the bar, deep in conversation. Anand squinted his eyes; he knew who her companion was. Kabir, Amir’s younger brother.

Kabir worked as a videogame designer, seemingly dividing his time between long days working and nights of partying, forever knee-deep in the most glamorous girls in the shortest skirts. There were, as usual, three of them clustered around him; Anand contemplated him with some awe. When he had mentioned Kabir’s girlfriends to Vidya, she had looked at him scornfully and said: Don’t be absurd. He’s gay.

And: Of course, she said, his parents don’t know.

It did not seem logical. Right now, Kabir was ignoring the girls and had his arm around Kavika, whispering in her ear, tugging at the scarf around her neck. She was laughing back.

The second band took to the stage and launched into a cover of Pink Floyd.

When Vidya wandered back to sip at the glass of vodka-tonic at their table, Anand could not help saying to her: I thought you said he was gay.

She glanced at Kabir and grinned. “All Kavika’s closest male friends are gay. She’s a total fag hag. You can’t be so critical of people,” she said. “Nothing wrong if he’s gay.”

“I didn’t say there was,” said Anand. “If he is gay.”

He tried to concentrate on the music. If the woman laughing at the distant bar saw him, she gave no indication of it. She