Rewritten: 23 February 2024
⭒
Manik
'This is just a job, don't listen to what the others say. You are worth much more. Music is your calling, your passion, your everything,' my subconscious mind lectured yet again, soothing my rapidly firing neurons in the best way possible. I braced myself and tugged the heavily embroidered sherwani over my broad trunk and smoothed it out before pinning the garment in place.
Delicately handwoven with intricate little peacocks that glimmered like stars in the Victorian-style full-length mirror, it outwardly eradicated all darkness I sourced and emanated an ethereal glow, reflecting in my slightly appreciative smile. I could somewhat understand why my father thought I was the perfect successor to the only baby he put his heart and soul into – his fashion house, of course. Why, did I wrongly give the impression that I was referring to myself?
I would have to be reborn again for any of the Malhotras to give a crap about me, perhaps that too wouldn't change my destiny.
Bubbling with unchartered resentment that needed the first blow to erupt violently, I vouched that gig would be the last one I would ever do for Manish Malhotra's Fashion House; no more of my time would be enslaved into meagre tasks meant for peons to take over just so I could pay my bills.
Fuck it, if push came to shove, the streets past dusk would warmly embrace me and my guitar, while deserted footpaths would give me a podium to perform and earn my living wages from it. Manchester was filled with budding blips of such unbounded talent and unconditional support from ones near and dear to them, but I had a better thing up my sleeve: the privilege of a classist parent with a luxurious reputation attached to his name – one who found such lifestyles pitiful and disparaging for his standards.
A couple of short, well-groomed men clad in sherwanis themselves, dressed beyond the means of their class, blocked some time in their busy schedules to assist me. See, in music one did not need to be so vain; none of Fab 5's performances considered reputation or class to be one of the criteria of soulful music, talent automatically rang in hearts.
One of them brushed my forehead, and those distasteful memories resided within it, with a dense revolving poof, tiptoeing slightly to step in range while the other effortlessly hung a pearl-beaded chain over my left shoulder blade.
"How may I service you, Your Majesty?" Diyah, my 'girlfriend' chuckled as she playfully bowed, covering her mouth with her two forefingers as she always did whenever she giggled. The epitome of beauty in the human form. Except for her distinct native accent, it was hard to point out what part of her was half-British.
King.
"Is that what they call slaves in this era?"
The excitement on her face blurred in an instant as she regarded my smirk. She took a step to rub my back affectionately, sympathising with my failure as an artist for sure. "Manik..."
Nope. Don't want none of that.
Suddenly, the extremely expensive outfit that had impressed me merely moments ago coiled my gut in a tight wrench. "I don't see why anyone would pay a thousand pounds for this mediocrity." I remarked, my Indian accent still faint underneath the covert 'r's.
She shrugged coyly at the shifted topic, perhaps glad that my mood hadn't faltered, and let her dark medium-length curls bounce off. "It suits you so well, but we can choose whatever you like when it's our turn."
At once I knew where I was leading the conversation into, a forbidden can of worms I did not want to indulge in at that moment... or perhaps any time in the near future. My makeup artist tapped my shoulder, mumbling 'Relax your eyebrows,' as he brushed the soft fluffy thing all over my forehead.
Releasing an involuntary tension with a single breath, I brought back my rehearsed smile. Nobody was allowed to possess that much power over me, to manipulate my emotions any way they wanted – never again. That was now my conscious decision to make, completely in my control.
Diyah didn't want to miss the prospect of me posing in wedding attire for the Vogue September edition release, so she slid her mobile out and clicked a few candid shots of me.
Wedding.
My toes curled inside my already-curled loafers, constricting them further in place. At the back of my head, I knew that the expectation for settling down was coming along somewhere; regardless of class or wealth, it was a concept so deeply ingrained in Indian blood universally. What was the most ironic was some of the worst examples of marriage were the ones dropping little grains of hints for those hopeful commitment-seeking birds to flock to.
Who in their right mind would willingly offer complete power over themselves and their feelings to another person, who could quite easily crush it with merely the snap of their fingers? A recipe for disaster was what it was.
"Alright, off you go, Malhotra."
I didn't realize when I was dragged, with the humongous ethnic suit that was a symbol of foolish surrender, out to the start of the illuminated ramp. Paparazzi lined either side.
Out of practiced habit, my eyes searched for five faces that defined me in the vacant arena of dispersing beams. As they slowly appeared as figments in a red spotlight, exploding warmth enveloped me and I levitated up the stage in their grace. There was nothing to be afraid of, they were there. All of them right there.
My name was chanted in reverberating cheers. Delighted like a toddler experiencing magic for the first time, I took my first steps to flashes of cameras in the path of those five statues. Then long, confident strides to bridge the gap.
With every brisk motion, I felt more myself, returning to where I belonged, as the unspeakable tension of all my failures slowly dissipated and infantile strength complemented the grandeur look my facade imposed. I joyfully walked towards them and them alone while they numbly stared at me, mumbling my name under their breath... their voices almost inaudible amongst the chaos.
And just like that, with the blink of an eye, the red beam dispersed from them and a crumbled pillar of my existence drowned in that suddenly dark destination... leaving me stranded and all alone. The place they stood was now replaced by a void.
Horrified by their disappearance, my breath quickened as my legs turned to stone, and did not pulse to depart.
"Manik! Manik! Manik! Manik!"
"Manik, keep walking, all the way here,"
Breathe. Breathe. Fab 5 and Abhimanyu, my friends, they were right there. And then...
"Baby, you're doing great! Keep walking," came Diyah's voice.
I wanted to, I tried to... but an invisible barricade barred me from taking a step further. A step in the direction of their vanishing.
I couldn't.
Palpitating, I fixated on the green 'Exit' boards and mindlessly charged out.
⭒⭒⭒
The march back into the office had somewhat calmed my raging nerves.
My father stormed into the cabin following me, spinning me and hauling me by my collar. His flaring nose almost touching mine. "How fucking dare you walk out of there ignoring my calls?" Accustomed to the bone-chilling tone and the rough handling right from a very young age, I froze in my spot.
Except I was not six anymore. I would not be whipped with a belt for my overly playful nature that was – in his loving words – out of anybody's control.
I casually flung his arm off me and placated, "Whatever files you need signed from Nyonika... I'll get them – " He grit his teeth, careful to not create a scene around the guests who were lingering around.
"That was Vogue UK, one of the biggest stakeholders in our business and – do you have any idea what kind of exposure this project would have given us in the global space? How much blood, sweat and tears went into making this..."
"Yes, I am... well aware. Your lecture from ten years ago is still crystal clear." I said with a brooding smile that veiled my fragile emotional state and protected me from surrendering to Manish Malhotra's authority.
With a finger extended sideways, he grunted, "Before I lose my fucking mind, out! Out of my office, right now." When I ceased to move, the ground trembled in his violent stomp and I staggered in reflex, my heart recklessly slamming in my chest. "I – said – NOW!"
No hesitation followed. I bolted towards the door, half-shaken by the unforeseen intimidation and half-hurt by it and myself for letting it upset me. As if that wasn't enough, he added before I reached the door, "Cabir was right when he said you should not be entrusted with anything."
Emboldened by a frightful fury that had hands, legs and horns of its own, it locked eyes with Cabir who was then visible through the transparent circular window on the cabin door.
Cabir, a lethal punch to my stomach, the perfect son he wished he had.
The eight-year-long hurricane of adulthood withered six of us dry, unattended leaves in a whirlpool of wind, encircled with one another by tangled brutally sabotaged pasts but rendered us lifeless and further away with each blow.
My eyes stung without cause as he gaped at me through the glass. That treacherous bastard.
I swung the door and exited to the left, shaking Diyah's forced embrace and pacing ahead, wanting to be with nothing else but my guitar and soul-consuming darkness.
⭒
I'm actually sobbing, am I allowed to be in lacerating grief for a character who is merely a figment of my imagination?