I didn’t plan to write anything that night. I only carried the small notebook because the habit won’t die. The Khanapara ground was already loud before anything started, not with music but with people arguing about where the entry line began. A man in a bright yellow sweater kept insisting he had seen Post Malone’s car go past, even though no car actually went past. Someone else shouted for their cousin for a full five minutes, wrong name each time.
The air smelled strange, part winter, part dust. A girl near the barricade had glitter on her cheeks that kept falling off every time she laughed. She didn’t stop laughing.
The lights on stage flickered, not in a stylish way, more like loose wiring. Then suddenly Post was there. No intro. Just there. Someone in front of me gasped so loudly it startled the people around her. The first beat thudded late, like the speaker had been woken from a nap.
People didn’t dance together. They moved in jagged little bursts, like their bodies were remembering songs they’d learned years ago but never practiced in public. A boy kept jumping even during slow parts. His friend told him to stop once and then gave up.
Halfway through the fourth or fifth song, Post stopped singing and looked out like he was searching for someone he knew. Then he mentioned Zubeen Garg. He didn’t shape the sentence neatly; it came out slightly uneven, like he wasn’t sure if the microphone would carry it right. The crowd changed immediately. Noise fell sideways. A woman clasped her hands together. Someone whispered, “Zubeen, Zubeen,” not as a chant, more as a reminder to themselves that the name still hurts.
The air felt heavier, but not in a sad way. More like the ground deepened a little. I almost forgot to write anything down for a minute.
A few songs later, Post walked down a ramp and slipped. A tiny slip. Barely a half-second. But the audience reacted as if someone had dropped a glass bowl on a tiled floor. Gasps everywhere. His team rushed, but he had already steadied himself, adjusting his sleeve like the fall was just a wrinkle he needed to smooth out. Some people laughed afterward, the kind of shaky laugh that comes out when you’re relieved without admitting you were scared.
The concert kept going, though at some point the speakers started buzzing faintly. A group behind me tried to harmonize with Circles and failed spectacularly. One of them said, “Close enough” and kept going.
There were moments that made no sense in sequence. Someone lit a small flashlight and waved it around even though the phone flashlight was right there. Two kids argued about whether Post actually drinks beer on stage or if it’s apple juice. A man wearing a shawl with cartoon ducks on it began crying during a completely upbeat song.
Toward the end, the crowd loosened into a sort of soft wobble. Not dancing. More like swaying because standing still felt too stiff. The lights shifted from blue to orange and the field suddenly looked dusty even though there was no wind. Post sang something, and people sang something else, but the mismatch didn’t matter.
I wrote down a line that I crossed out later: “Assam doesn’t know how to host a global star.” That wasn’t true. It hosted him exactly the way Assam hosts anything big: with confusion, warmth, noise, and a little bit of emotional overflow. A style no one teaches but everyone somehow understands.
When the concert ended, or maybe when the music just stopped I didn’t notice the exact moment people didn’t rush out. They wandered. A boy hummed a Zubeen tune again, off-key but with his whole chest. Someone said their feet were frozen. Someone else asked where the Uber pickup point was, even though everyone knows there is no such thing at Khanapara during events. A girl in a green scarf said the night felt “unfinished” and nobody disagreed.
Walking away, the ground felt uneven, like the earth was still carrying vibrations from the speakers. I kept thinking I should have written more, but maybe there wasn’t more. Maybe the night wasn’t meant to be organized in sentences. It was just fragments. A name spoken into a crowd. A stumble. A thousand small reactions you only notice when you aren’t looking for meaning.
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Sana has been covering film, fame, and everything in between for over a decade. From red carpets to rehab rumors, she brings nuance, wit, and an insider’s edge to every story. When she’s not reporting, she’s probably watching Koffee With Karan reruns or doom-scrolling celebrity IG feeds.
