“I’m sorry.” She turned.
“Neela! Hi!”
“Rukmini?” With her hair in a loose bun and no jewellery, she didn’t look the way Neela remembered her from North by Northeast.
“Ya!”
“Your foot . . . is it . . .”
“Oh, it’s fine. Honestly. You can step on me anytime!” Rukmini laughed, hugging her, and added, “I love your skirt.” Neela had paired the pencil skirt with a pinstriped blouse, like she was on a hiring committee. She felt perturbed by Rukmini’s nonchalant outfit: a cut-up crop top and jeans.
“Sit anywhere,” called the dishevelled server from behind the bar counter.
Rukmini threw her worn canvas purse on the table by the front window. There was a loose thread hanging from the trunk of the pink elephant embroidered on the top flap of her bag. Was she a cross-stitcher? “Aah,” Rukmini sighed.
“Are you in pain?” Neela craned her neck to look under the table.
“No, no. It’s so great to finally hang out, Neela. One-on-one, you know?” She pronounced Neela the Indian way, emphasizing the n and l.
“It is,” she said, envying the cyclist who had just rode by — free, outside.
“So. Can I ask you something?”
Neela never knew how to respond to this question, which always suggested a more invasive question was on its way. She nodded slightly.
“What did you think?”
Was Rukmini asking her thoughts on the North by Northeast panel? How would Neela respond politely?
“You two ready?” the server interjected, pen hovering above a notepad.
“I’ll have the peppermint tea with agave,” Rukmini stated, like a regular. How many friend dates had Rukmini brought there? Did she always sit in the same spot? Had they all met online?
“I guess I’ll have the same.” More of a ginger tea woman, Neela didn’t like peppermint but felt an unfamiliar impulse to seem agreeable.
“My cover!” Rukmini continued as though they hadn’t been interrupted.
“Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to her that Rukmini would want to discuss the cover. Was this why she had asked to meet? Wasn’t it enough that Neela had retweeted her?
“Oh no. You hate it!” Rukmini covered her mouth with her ombre manicured fingers.
“No, I liked it.”
“Oh good! I’m so relieved. Ever since I saw you perform it at the Rivoli in March, it’s been in my head.”
“You were there?” She found it easier to picture Rukmini at a mega pop concert at the Rogers Centre than at one of her own shows. Rukmini seemed like the kind of woman who would be on her feet for the whole concert, dancing and screaming with her girlfriends, forcing the people sitting behind them to stand.
“Two peppermint teas?” the server announced, placing large baby blue mugs in front of them. He paused. “By the way, you’re Neela Devaki, right?” he whispered.
She nodded.
“I’m a big fan.”
“You should see her live if you haven’t already!” Rukmini shouted as he raced back to the kitchen before Neela could even say thank you.
“Seriously though, what a show,” Rukmini continued, clasping her cheeks with her hands in awe. “I love how you grabbed the audience’s attention with silence of all things. Kind of genius. And your voice, my god. I cried the whole time.”
“Really?” Neela tilted her head.
“Embarrassing, but I couldn’t help it. And then when your keyboard player brought out the lasagna? So sweet!”
“Kasi. She really made it a special night.”
“Hmm,” she crooned and nodded.
Softened by Rukmini’s un-Toronto-like generosity and enthusiasm (or by the agave in the tea), Neela blurted, “Actually, I agreed to meet you because I loved your cover.”
“You did?” Rukmini pumped her fist, as though the Leafs had just scored.
Neela had been so certain she would hate the cover that the first time she listened to it, she had pressed Play on the YouTube link and retreated to the washroom, leaving the door barely open. When the song opened with the expected fuzzy synth line, Neela sarcastically muttered, “Breathtaking.” But as the song continued, she became mesmerized by Rukmini’s bright harmonies that she had found to complement the lead. From the toilet, she reached out to pull the door open. Unlike a lot of the electronic music she disliked, the drums didn’t drown out the track but instead intensified the devotion expressed in her lyrics. Without flushing, she strode back to her computer, opened iTunes and played her original song to confirm its superior status. Midway into the chorus, she unconsciously began singing Rukmini’s harmonies. Later when she sank into her bed like a wounded warrior grateful for sunset, Rukmini’s cover continued playing in her head. Since that night, she had been unable to sleep.
“You took something I thought was already pretty perfect and made it more so. That’s power.”
“Power. Interesting word choice.”
Embarrassed that she had offered too much praise, she thought about also confessing that she had hoped meeting Rukmini would somehow restore her own power, that maybe, like in a myth, when Rukmini’s mouth opened, Neela’s song would escape and return to her, its rightful owner. Instead she asked, “Have you ever thought about recording your own material?”
Rukmini bowed her head over her empty mug. “No. Covers are my thing, I guess.” She used air quotes to emphasize thing.
Feeling guilty, Neela thought about asking the server for more hot water. “They don’t have to be?” she offered.
“Hmm.” Rukmini paused. “You and I should start a band!” she announced, sitting up taller.
“A cover band?”
Rukmini let out an incredulous ha. “You don’t do covers.”
“How do you know that?” As she reached for her phone to check the time, Rukmini put her hand on Neela’s.
“Neela Devaki, I know everything about you.”
* * *
“How did it go?” Puna yelled from the kitchen when Rukmini got home.
Whenever she tried to guess what Puna was making based on the smells that seeped into her bedroom, she consistently failed. What smelled like an omelette to her turned out to be crème brûlée, oatmeal turned out to be blueberry pie. But she kept guessing because she liked the adventure of testing herself and being corrected, the reminder that even her senses — her life guides — could be improved upon, strengthened.