Cafe Crooner

Our correspondent jams at a coffee shop hoping to pay for a cup of the bitter brew. At the end of the evening, her straw hat holds a small booty

I don8217;t quite know how I volunteered for this assignment but it had something to do with the plucky kid singing on the street. He sang with his eyes closed in a voice that was cracking as his little hands pumped away at the battered harmonium. He touched my heart and made me wonder: what would it be like to sing to strangers and make money?

So on a warm day, when my guitar strings are buzzed and I have that swollen-hand-blues tip of the hat to Pink Floyd, I step inside Barista on Bandra8217;s Linking Road, guitar in hand, and cocky smile intact. It8217;s just bravado. I8217;m a bundle of nerves. Inside, the National College gang is lounging around, a few professionals are tapping away at their computers, a few lovers are scanning the news while the mixer churns out iced coffee. In this din, with a nod from my forever-supportive partner, I strike up my first chords and launch into Mr Big8217;s To Be With You, an old favourite and a good icebreaker.

A girl and boy smile at me, the ice on their Cafeacute; Mocha melting quite a bit. Partner of course claps at the end of the song, but so does the couple. I smile, nod and launch into the next song, an oldie that8217;s a sing-along. Stand by me, I croon in earnest, and catch a few more listeners. One big sign that the girl behind the counter is listening too8212;she turns off the channel music. Now I have my audience.

A couple smile and draw their chairs closer. 8220;I like the way you sing,8221; says the girl called Sanobar Mistry, whose green eyes, freckles and winning smile has me smiling from ear to ear. The boy with her, Vinod Narsimhan, a lanky youth with a big Adams apple that bobs up and down when he speaks, puts in, 8220;I have a friend who plays the guitar and sings too. I8217;ll go get him.8221; nbsp;

My firm resolve is to remain 8216;un-intimidated8217; by competition. This is supposed to be my show, but musicians can get together and make music. So I go with the flow. The crowd at our table has swelled to a good four people as Amitesh, a one-time singer who gave up singing but has not given up on listening in, also joins us. Dhanya Pilo, another connoisseur of music, saunters in.nbsp; nbsp; nbsp;

I8217;m in the middle of singing Clapton8217;s Wonderful Tonight, when in strides competition. Pruthu Parad is tall and handsome with a pierced tongue and a way with the guitar that quite honestly puts me in the shade. However, we strike up a good note, as he croons Pearl Jam, slips into Oasis and does a soul-searching Radio Head. Together, we have the place swinging and our table is by now one of the most happening. It doesn8217;t matter that we have not met before this. Music brings us together. And I say this at the risk of sounding sappy.

In the middle of Wonderwall, I get up and take around the old straw hat around, to see if they are willing to pay the piper. The only time I have taken the box around is at Church and once or twice for the Tsunami victims. Asking for money for one8217;s own performance is not the best of things but I guess you have to persuade people to loosen the purse strings.

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To my surprise, we manage to make Rs 80, just enough to sponsor the coffee we ordered. A gentleman in pinstripes and shaven pate comments, 8220;Had it been for a cause, I would have dug deeper.8221; And I think, had I really been a musician, I would be living off vada-pav and chai and probably spending my nights in an old cardboard box. But after today, I sing in confidence. After all, I paid for my coffee. Now if only I could cut a record. Is Sony listening?