Dec 4, 2024 13:04 IST First published on: Dec 4, 2024 at 13:04 IST
My best friend and I have a few things in common: She is a doctor; I have studied humanities; she is a vegetarian, I am not; she reads self-help books, I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere around them. But we find things to bond over, most recently our shared love for Prateek Kuhad – an independent musician, songwriter and singer “who makes the same kind of songs” – much to the chagrin of critics, and the delight of fans.
So it was that we made our way to his concert somewhere in the depths of Gurgaon last week. As the venue drew closer, youngsters, none seemingly more than 22, wearing trendy, “non-winter” attire started emerging from every corner. “We have reached,” I told my friend, as I clutched my granny cardigan.
“Sab bachche bachche lag rahe hain, madam? (They all are kids, aren’t they?)”, pointed out our driver as we summarily ignored him.
I am 37, my friend is 40. But who says you can’t attend a concert that is strictly reserved for the Gen Z, or later millennials at best?
Having hurriedly put on my regular office attire – a kurta and stretchy pants with pockets – I was nowhere dressed for the occasion. At the long queue at the mall washroom, a girl, dressed to the nines in a short red skirt and stockings, asked: “Are you here for the concert?”
“Umm, yes… although, I don’t look the part. He he.” She did not merit that with a response. I made my way to the concert area, as fast as my heavily-overweight-and-not-used-to-any-physical-activity body could carry me. I preferred standing quietly in the background, but my friend insisted on jostling through the crowd to catch a better glimpse of our man. “Now, there goes my plan of not drawing any attention to myself!” I thought. As we found our tiny little space in the sea of besotted youngsters, I began singing along.
“You have come prepared,” remarked my friend. “You bet!” As if on cue, Prateek shouted, “Should we all sing together? I will sing one line; you sing the next.” The crowd, full of youthful energy, went mad. And he began belting out what was perhaps the first Prateek Kuhad song I had heard with little knowledge that I would become a devoted fan one day.
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Cut to the concert: I sang along to each song. Matched fellow fans on each word. And then I noticed something: I was no longer feeling self-conscious. As if the difference between me and the rest of the attendees never existed. We were now one entity, united in the way we were drawn to the magic of this man from Jaipur. The stark difference in our ages, fashion sense, fitness levels just vanished. Gradually, I found the courage to ask my friend to take a picture of me, again, without drawing any attention. The next moment, a girl said, “You give me your phone. I will take it!” She clicked several shots as I sheepishly stood, not knowing what to do with my hands. How does one make a Korean heart even?
Before I could get at ease, another girl, this one much younger and part of a larger group, exclaimed: “Wait, I will click your picture on my phone! They will come out better.” And they surely did. We promptly exchanged phone numbers and Insta handles. “Sounds like a friendship bracelet moment at a Taylor Swift concert!” a younger friend from work would observe two days later. I looked it up; yes, it was indeed a friendship bracelet moment, albeit the invisible kind. We, my friend and I, looked at our watch: it was 9.15pm. In no mood to get lost in the melee of the “happy high” youngsters during the concert’s closing moments, we had decided to leave half an hour earlier. “You are leaving already?” asked my new young friend. “Yeah, we are old. Can’t be standing in the cold for so long,” I replied. “How old are you even? No way, 37 is not old! You are young, okay? You are young,” screamed back the entire group in one voice until I agreed to their affirmations.
How long was I there? Barely an hour-and-a-half, at a four-hour event that would have likely gone on longer. But it felt like I had lived a lifetime. What was that night? Was that a dream? I still find myself asking a week on. “What are you even singing?” enquired my colleague as she caught me unmindfully humming a few lines that were ringing in my ears the next day. “Oh, nothing special,” I replied as I quietly smiled to myself, imagining that in another part of the city, a girl, over a decade-and-a-half younger than me, must be singing the same tune as our invisible friendship bracelet shines bright in the nippy December night. “Tune kaha, maine sunn liya,” Prateek Kuhad would have remarked.
