Half Girlfriend Read online

  ‘Gates Foundation. They are like huge, man,’ one banker said to me.

  ‘I just run a small school they fund,’ I said.

  ‘I need a Gates Foundation grant. Do they fund bankers who need an apartment in Manhattan?’ said another. Everyone laughed.

  I spoke to many of those present, but felt little connection with any of them. I stepped away from the crowd and sat on the sofa. I took out my phone to look at the pictures I had taken during the day. I had taken some inside MSG.

  ‘You watched a Knicks game?’ I heard Priya’s voice from behind me.

  I turned to look at her.

  ‘Yes, I went today.’

  ‘Nice pictures. Can I see?’

  She sat down next to me. I flipped through the photos.

  My phone vibrated. A message from ‘Erica, Tribeca Nation singer’.

  ‘Checking out the Jazz and Music Fest?’ The message flashed as a notification and disappeared. The phone screen went back to displaying pictures again.

  ‘Next?’ Priya said as I didn’t touch my phone for a minute.

  ‘Priya, just a second. I need to send a reply.’

  ‘Oh, sure, I will get a drink. Not for you, though,’ she smiled, wagging a finger at me. I smiled back.

  I composed a message for Erica: I leave Monday. Almost packed. At my farewell party now. Thanks anyway. ☺

  She replied: Fly safe. Ciao. ☺

  I looked up. I saw Priya engrossed in conversation with someone at the bar.

  I shut my phone and placed it in my jacket pocket. I then realized that I was still carrying the brochures Daisy, the old lady, had given me outside Madison Square Garden. I read them one by one.

  ‘CATS—the longest running Broadway musical,’ said the first.

  ‘Blue Man Comedy Show—combining music, technology and comedy,’ said another.

  One of the brochures was a sixteen-page thick, A5-sized booklet. It said ‘New York Music and Jazz Festival Weekend’.

  The room lights had been dimmed, making it difficult for me to read the text. I shifted my seat closer to a candle on the coffee table. ‘123 performers. 25 venues. 3 days. 1 city,’ it said on the booklet cover.

  The booklet opened with a two-page spread of the schedule of performances. It was arranged in three tables, one each for Friday, 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. After 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, Café Wha?, $8 entry, two drinks minimum.’

  I turned the page to look up the details of Café Wha? and strained hard to read the tiny print.

  Café 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. Bleecker 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 Café Wha?’s number and called them.

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

  ‘Hello. Café 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 myself 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 powde