meeting tori amos

I can picture it, much as I have for a while now. She, calm and collected, smiling a half-smile, safe in the knowledge that this moment belongs to her. Me, shy, palms sweaty, trying hard to smile but settling for a strange sort of creepy grin instead. “Hi Tori,” I’d say, effectively waving goodbye to a novel, surprising approach with which to grab her attention. ‘Hi,” she’d reply. “I’ve never hung around with anyone from India before. Do they really have elephants walking the streets there?”

I’d pause and try hard to collect my thoughts. “No,” I’d stutter. In my head, I’d form a firm, relatively cohesive reply (Something like: ‘No. That’s a stereotypical image that has long been forced upon India and much of the third world, primarily to reinforce the myth of Western superiority over the Orient, thereby granting the former a right to dictate terms by which the latter ought to live.’) What I’d probably end up saying would be, “No elephants. I’ve seen a lot of cows though.”

She’d smile again and offer me a glass of water. I’d accept and stare out the window, wondering if my replies would ever be relatively normal. “Tell me about you,” she’d say. “I’m 27,” I’d reply, smiling that creepy smile again. “And I work as a journalist in Mumbai. I have two brothers and no pets, and listening to music has always been one of my most favourite things in the world for as long as I can remember.” She’d nod and ask, “Is Indian classical music a lot like Western classical?” I’d probably stutter something about not having listened to Indian classical music much. “I love your music though,” I’d stammer, faintly.

This would go on, for approximately 29 minutes. She’d ask me interesting questions; I’d dawdle and spit out futile replies. With five minutes to go, I’d begin to ramble about how much I’ve always admired her music. I’d then ask her to autograph just about everything in sight, before begging her to let me get a couple of photographs. She’d agree graciously. I’d stumble on my way out.

That’s one possibility.

Then again, I could do this the right way. I could walk into Tori’s dressing room bearing a huge armful of African daisies and a bottle of Pinot Noir. “Hi,” I could say, “I’ve never bought anyone flowers before, because I’ve never had reason enough.” She’d laugh and accept. “Have you ever met anyone from India, Tori?” I’d ask. “Only Indians living in America,” she’d probably reply. “Tell me about yourself.”

I’d smile, offer her the bottle of wine and ask her if she’d come back to India with me. “It’s a colourful country,” I’d say. “A place where the spiritual is part of life. There are no elephants on the streets. We have pepperoni pizzas and McDonalds, cell-phone toting executives and air-conditioned cabs with DVD players. You could step out of a mall, turn a corner, and find an old man in orange robes reading the palm of a teenager dressed in Levi’s and a GAP t-shirt.”

She’d pause, taking it all in. “No elephants? Do western artists perform there, then?” “Yes,” I’d smile. “The Stones were here, and Sting, Roger Waters, Bryan Adams and Michael Jackson. We have some of the best musicians in the world too, so you could come and jam with a sitar player or pick a few tips from the maestros who played with George Harrison.” The conversation would then turn to Indian women, femininity, and the female consciousness. “Indian feminism is different from what it is in the West,” I’d say. “Why?” Tori would ask, surprised, sipping her wine. “Because Western feminism begins at a point where egalitarianism is taken for granted; a concept Indian women have never really been given access to.”

Tori would smile at me, then, and tell me she’s had a wonderful time. I’d smile back and tell her I wished I could stay longer so she could tell me about her song writing and how she picks the themes on which a majority of her more powerful tracks are based. I’d kiss her on the cheek, take her by the hand, and ask her if she’d dance with me so I could grow old with that memory.

She’d give me a grin and nod. There wouldn’t be music, but we’d glide across the room. Then, nearing the exit, I’d look into her eyes, kiss her on the forehead, and thank her for the music.