Gehraiyaan.

Chapter 08

The one where he creates music in - his personal studio; so personal that the door has been locked. Twice.

He leads me to a spacious room, equipped with microphones, instruments and this line of gadgets that I have absolutely no idea about. It looks extremely professional.

"Welcome to my comfort space", he tugs at a beanbag and gestures me to take a seat. Comfort space. Sure. Equipped with gadgets that cost a hundred thousand rupees.

"Is this where your purpose lies?", I ask him and look around. I hear him chuckle, before he falls back on a beanbag and stretches his legs out, whilst throwing his head back.

"Everything lies here. You have no idea", he tells me, calmly, and smiles, staring at the illuminated ceiling.

"I love the space. It's beautiful", I compliment. "I designed and planned out everything in this room", he reveals. "Here's my most favourite corner. Come here, I'll show you", he springs up and strides to the corner in the room, crammed with frames.

"The timeline. This was my first performance. I think I was 15 and I performed at an Uncle's wedding", he pointed at an old, rusty picture. "I spilled coffee over it around 6 years ago, but I love this picture so much. You know, sometimes even when things are distorted, the memories of it are simply so vivid. This is one of that", he tells me and I smile.

"You were a fat kid", I giggle and he darts a death stare in my direction, keeping his hands on his hip. "I'm showing you an extremely integrate part of my life, and all you care about is the fact that I was fat", he utters, unimpressed, and I laugh softly, looking at the other pictures.

"The story behind this?", I draw his attention to a picture, where he's playing the guitar in front of the Eiffel Tower. "Nothing special. I've travelled around Europe. A lot. And you know, the people there perform on the streets and underground metro stations for money. Whoever enjoys the performance can drop down some coins. I didn't need the money, but I wanted the experience. So my friend and I planned a secret flight to Paris, without telling anyone, and we sang on every random street we wanted to. It's one of the best memories I have", he recalls, smiling.

"And this? Are you standing with Vishal Dadlani?", I interrogate, looking closely at a picture. "This was at an audition; my first and last. Vishal Dadlani and a bunch of other renowned singers were judging the show. I was selected, but then, I had to discontinue", his voice drops and he looks down at his hands.

"It was--A.R. Rahman was the ambassador for the show and the winner had the chance to sing in his movies", he smiles and a moment later, shakes his head to the sides, walking away from his memories.

Pictures are a Portal to good times, and they're also a constant reminder about how life would've been different if certain things never fell into spaces the way they did.

"This is my favourite guitar. I bought it from Paris", he randomly tell me, running his fingers over a polished, wooden guitar and takes it to his hand. "Can you play something?", I look at him. "Shoot a suggestion", he raises his eyebrow and sits down on the beanbag, comfortably.

"Kal Ho Na Ho? It's one of my favourites", I suggest and he stops to think for a moment, before tugging the strings. Oh my God, he's actually playing Kal Ho Na Ho, but moments after starting, he fumbles and makes a mistake. It must've been my evil eye.

"Fuck!", he cusses, dropping his head down, forcing his hair to fall over his eyes. "I haven't done this in a while, and I get extremely nervous around people", he breathes. I don't know what exactly to say at this moment.

"Off late, music has been extremely personal to me, I haven't played around people in a while. Suddenly, your presence is intimidating", he smiles and keeps the guitar aside. "Maybe I'll play it for you after a little practice", he says.