Fifteen Minutes of Fame

It was the show we all wanted to do well on. It was even more important because the SUS had told us just a few days before the date of the show, and because it was something we all wanted to do, a refusal full of attitude was out of the question.

Shaon, one of the violinists, was the star of the practices. He has an amazing talent of forgetting all that has to be remembered. We would spend hours, often very precious hours, just waiting for him to remember what he was supposed to do, or just get what he remembered right. Someone or the other would invariably lose his patience, and then Shaon would get even more obtuse.
"But I was playing this all along," he would say, "I was playing this yesterday too and you didn't say anything."
"No you weren't Shaon. You are hitting G and its not even in the progression."
"I am not hitting G, that is C," he would counter, and then to prove his point, he would play something.
"See Shaon, that's exactly what we are saying. Its not G. Its C."

But Shaon would just shake his head and continue to play what he was playing all along, till someone would start tearing his hair out. At this point Aditya, the other violinist, would figure out Shaon's error, Karam, the drummer, would say, "yaye", Parag, our own Elvis, would do a pelvic thrust combined headbang, Protim would crack an extremely poor joke and practice would resume, only to stop the next minute because Shaon had forgotten again.

"But I can't hear Protim, "he would say. "I get my cue from him."
"No Shaon, you didn't hear Protim because he wasn't playing. You get your cue Parag, not Protim."
"But I couldn't hear Parag because the drums are too loud."
"Yeah, Karam, can you be softer on the drums?" Protim would say, for the hundredth time.
"The drums are not a soft instrument. I'm already as soft as I can be," Karam would counter.
"Just be f'king softer still."
"You want to know what f'king loud is? This is fucking loud!" Karam would say as he pounded on his drums.
"Yeah I know what fucking loud is. I am a part of a band you know, "Protim would scream.
"Yeah, I am a part of a band, then know what loud is. I'm playing f'king soft."
Practice would be adjourned for half an hour.

Things worked differently when Tanmoy, the flautist, was there. His ultimate pitch to us was that while he was there, only his piece was to be practiced. "Don't squander precious time, " he would tell us, "because I may not come later."
"just come later man! Pile on in rez. If you're scared, I'll even ask permission."
"No I can't come."
"Why?"
"I just can't."
"But we've just practiced your piece four times right now, and we're all sick of it." A dull murmuring of agreement would come from the background. "So can we just practice something else and then come back to your piece?"
"No. Can we just do my piece now so that I can go home after that?"

So we would start Tanmoy's piece. A few seconds into it, we would stop.
"something is out, " Protim would say.
"Yeah, Karam the beat is fucked up."
" Nothing is wrong with the beat.You just can't stick to it, Tanmoy."
"No, hear, it fits."
"I heard and it doesn't."
"Ok, we'll just do it faster."
"Fine."
"But faster will get too fast for me."
"Fine."
"So I'll tell you what. We'll slow it down. Then it will be easier to keep beat too."
"Fine."
"But then the piece will drag, I'll tell you what, we'll keep it the same speed."
"Fine. Can we start again now?"
At some point in the immediate future, Tanmoy would storm out.

Somehow we made it to the show and the band hadn't still broken up. Our promised soundcheck of thirty minutes was reduced to, "Ok, you have thirty minutes, sound check included. Best of luck."
It took us ten minutes to hear ourselves on the stage. "Ok guys, get off in twenty minutes," Maya barked.
It took another five minutes for the audience to hear us over the screeching sound system.
"Guys, you're off in 15 minutes."
"But Maya, we haven't even started yet."
"I don't know. I can't help it. Just get off in 15 minutes."

The long story, from this point on, is cut short. Fifteen minutes later, we were offstage. But not all was lost. It was an evening dedicated to fusion music, and the only fusion played that evening was by us. However, we still were the losers. All that practice for just fifteen minutes of fame.

Part Me Hash and other Conversations

I never thought much of anagrams, till the other day, in class, because we had forgotten to carry the chess board, we were bored. It was Amit's fault really. The chess board was his as was the original practice of carrying it to class. Then we became addicts, to the extent that visiting teachers inculcated the habit of not disturbing a delicately poised game. Part Me Hash was Amit's attempt at redemption.

The day had begun with Prathamesh's medical checkup at Maulana Azad Medical College. There was a quiz there, about the same time we had a class at GK. So he decided to go for the quiz, the checkup being the obvious subterfuge. All was going well. Tirthankar had been summoned from Gurgaon, the two of them being acquainted through their respective "quizzing circles". The logistics of reaching Maulana Azad were worked out too. It was all working out fine till Aarti, the sixteen year old in our class, decided to not show up. In itself, the offense was not much. It just meant we were going to have a more comfortable ride to GK. But small acts such as these have larger implications. It was only because of her that we were still at the Mukh Gate when Vipul called. Dinesh Singh wanted to talk to us. These were troubled times for Stephen's, and by implication, for us. No one knew what he wanted to talk to us about, but all of us were sure that the worst scenario was that the CMS could be asked to leave college, which would leave all of us in the lurch. Furious, Prathamesh came to the cab, and he wanted a smoke. So Amit and he went for one.

Then Aarti erred again. She came as soon as they left for the smoke and Vipul came behind her. She was late because she had confronted her landlord about spices in her food. With no excuse left to be waiting outside the gate, we started our drive to GK. We picked Prathamesh and Amit from the Faculty of Arts gate, both of whom, like thorough gentlemen, offered their cigarettes to anyone who cared for them, and took their place in the van. Then Ila threatened to vomit because the cigarette smoke was bugging her, and again, in a manner true to gentlemen, Prathamesh parted with his just lit Malboro Lite (or is it Lights?). Then in the fashion of most of high society, he smile at Ila and bitched about her in my ear when she wasn't looking.

Such incidents kept the ride alive till we reached N-91, the CMS hideout at South Campus. We rang the bell. There was no response. Fifteen minutes later, a foul looking lady came out and threw a key down at us. It hit Tarun, though he claims it didn't. We unlocked the gates and made our way upstairs. We hadn't finished reaching upstairs, when we were informed that the class we had reached there for was postponed and was to take place later because the class later was cancelled. And if that wasn't complicated enough, Igor came and lectured on Reiez Representation Theorem.

Lunch and general foolery followed, till we came back to the hideout. Then the topic of anagrams came up and Part Me Hash was discovered. It pleased Prathamesh no end, and he swore he'd put it on his blog.

On our way back, Amit and I invented a game. Well, to be honest, we plagiarized and adapted. In Asterix and Gaul, the first of the series, Asterix and the Druid feed the Romans some hair growth potion and then played this game: whoever spotted a bearded man first, scored five. We adapted our game to suit our circumstances because Part Me Hash seems to know at least one person on any given corner of the globe. Our adaptation was that I'd score one if we mentioned someone and he knew and Amit would score five if he didn't. Then being mathematicians, we calculated the expectation of victory and concluded that it was a fair game.

And such ended another wasted trip to GK.