New Yaark New Yaark

The music is beat-y enough to want to drum ones body against the nearest wall. A heavy base punctuated by melancholy one strains to hear and hold on to. The desis are trickling in slowly enough. I'm disappointed that the women aren't dressed in all black with maroon lipstick. It gives me less to complain about and I remind myself this isn't Basement Bhangra. I sit on a high back chair, red wine by my side, against an unencumbered wall. Paisley is delightful. A furniture store in the Flatiron district that turns into a musical soiree space complete with bar and turntables on Thursday nights. Rekha and Ajay Sharma, the owners are dressed today in gorgeous 'traditional' clothing. Its diwali and I feel like celebrating on Rekha's string [barely] clad back. Her name is Rekha, it conjures up too many images. Iron bird cages, saris strung along the back wall, armoires, tables and chairs are all tastefully arranged in the noveau Indian art sort of way. A mix of this, a dash of that. Bi-culturalism is well alive and flourishing. Most notable are the sketches of two women near the entrance of the store. The women are caught in poses of reflection that range anywhere from sex to piety.

The lights get dimmer, the base heavier and my peace less peaceful. How long can a woman sitting by herself go unmolested in a room full of men sitting by themselves? Not long.

I'm waiting for Karsh Kale to start spinning. He and his girlfriend sit only a breath away. A quintessential new age couple. Not new age in the moon worshipping, vegan way but more in the 90's man and woman move into year 2000 way. In blue shirt, gray trousers and bi-colored goatee Karsh is…picturesque. I would speak of his girlfriend who commands just as much attention as he does but I'm slightly, ever so slightly jealous of her so I shall leave her out.

I look up and a man nods to me over his drink. I pretend not to notice because of the dark. The girls desi giggle over their drinks at the boys desi. Boys desi look amused by girls desi. I'm positive they said something inane and if I could read four pairs of lips at one time I could prove that without a shadow of a doubt. Their carefully applied lipstick and ironed clothes annoy me. I want somehow to muss them up. To make them look human. I myself prefer the tousled, 'just had sex for days and Ive gotten up for a bite to eat', look. The gelled hair of boys desi, the preppy gray sweater…they should take it all off and parade bare chested, thumping along with the music. Kamal Hasan in Hey Ram comes to mind. I tell myself this is all sex deprivation but then I recall my disgust of order and conformity has been a long and loyal friend. For good measure I still insult my boyfriend under my breath for being away.

The music leaves my body and becomes an independent soul as if I'm dreaming and it hovers above me. It returns with heart thumping reassurance and I pray that the next change over doesn't leave me as bereft and empty as the last. When the floor, the chairs and my bones don't resonate with the beat I feel the aftershocks, the tremors left over. My body tenses waiting for the beat, my pulse to begin again, a slow wave, cresting and crescendoing, one in another.

Desi action on the floor. A man dressed like an Indian hero's sidekick (striped shirt, khaki pants that pool onto his sneakers and a sweatshirt material bulky gray vest), is trying to be debonair with his dance partner's orange shawl. He had it around his neck and now its being wound around his head. He pulls in his dance partner with the shawl and turns her around to grind. Keeping a safe 2 second distance between their bodies, they sway, sort of. Their concentration of no body part touching is sexual since the energy is so tangible, the fear, the excitement of even a brush, a hint of hardness into softness. The girl turns around grateful (cannot fathom why) and they continue to dance. Touching really; Desi dancing. The lights are dimmed again and the music turned down a beat. An indication to mingle and refresh drinks. Two white girls are on the dance floor. Because white women can't move their hips as well (a gross generalization I know but one that fits in this situation), they move their shoulders making them look hunchback. They've chosen a bad time to get brave when the music is more instrumental, more beautiful than dance-y. The hand waving and Shiva like moves are just not jiving but they seem into it. More likely, they are drunk.

Tabla Beat Science: Tala Matrix is the name of the CD. The table tops along with candles held postcard stickers of the CD cover and other information about the CD. Zakir Hussain, Talvin Singh, Trilok Gurtu and Karsh Kale are the musicians that I was interested in listening to. There is something about the beat of the tabla that just grabs one from the inside out. The low beat of it, the rhythm and the way it snakes around the sound, the sensuous thumping, the mood manipulations that are possible with it, really intrigue me when I stop to think and not just feel the beat. Try it out.

Four hours later. 2 a.m.: Rekha, cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other is on the dance floor. Even the dead would be enamored.