Guwahati felt jumpy from the minute I stepped out of my building that morning. Not chaotic, just charged. Like the city had woken up before the alarm and did not quite know what to do with the extra energy. People were talking louder than usual at tea stalls. Someone’s radio kept cutting in and out with a Post Malone track, almost like it was trying to warm up for the night. Even the pigeons around Ulubari circle looked more restless than usual, though maybe that was just me projecting.
The closer it got to evening, the more the city tilted toward Khanapara. Autos heading in that direction were full before they even slowed down. You could spot groups of kids in streetwear they had clearly saved for something important. A couple arguing about whether they should have left earlier. Little details that, stitched together, told you this night mattered in a way that was hard to put into neat words.
The stage at the Khanapara Veterinary Ground looked unreal up close. So many lights, so many wires, as if a small city had been built overnight and would vanish again by morning. People kept stopping just to stare at it, and honestly, I did too. The flames that would later shoot up were sitting quietly at the base of the stage, like they were asleep. The LED panels flickered during sound check and a few kids gasped. You do not see setups like this here often, and that unfamiliarity made everything shimmer.
Earlier in the day, some of Malone’s team had visited Kamakhya Temple. The news spread the way good gossip spreads, quickly and with pride. Not the performative kind of pride, but that softer sort that lives under the skin. Kamakhya has that effect on people. Anyone who goes up there comes back a little quieter, like something old brushed past them. The fact that the team went felt oddly intimate, almost like a nod to the place hosting them.
Inside the venue, the crowd looked huge but moved gently, surprisingly. People had come from everywhere, some from cities I only ever hear mentioned in bus stand conversations. A guy next to me had traveled solo from Itanagar because none of his friends were free. He shrugged and said, who cares, this is Post Malone, and smiled like he had already won something just by being there.
The lights dropped without warning and everything froze. It was only a second, but it felt longer. Then the bass hit so heavy it made people stumble a little. And that scream you could feel it in your ribs. Post Malone walked out looking both relaxed and slightly taken aback, the way artists sometimes are when a crowd surprises them.
His voice carried strangely well in the cold. It cracked in places, smoothed out in others, and somehow those imperfections made it better. The flames shot up, warming the front rows for a blink. The runway let him get close enough that you could see every small expression, and people reacted like he had waved right at them even when he hadn’t.
But the real beauty of the night was not on the stage. It was everywhere else. A girl dropping her phone mid chorus and three strangers helping her find it in the dark. A group of boys trying to harmonize badly and laughing their lungs out. Someone crying quietly when their favorite song came on. I kept noticing how gentle the crowd was with each other, like everyone understood they were part of something new and delicate.
You could also feel the city shifting gears beneath all of it. Hotels full. Restaurants running out of plates. Taxi guys making more money in a night than in some weeks. The government had talked about concert tourism for months, but this was the first time it actually felt visible. Not in speeches but in the lived messiness of a city overflowing with excitement.
At the end, when Malone held up his cup, the cheer that rose felt heavier than just appreciation. Almost like the crowd was saying, see, we told you we could hold a night like this. Pride is a strange sound, but once you hear it, you recognize it instantly.
Walking out was slow, and a little chaotic, and absolutely perfect. People dragged their feet, not ready to re-enter regular life just yet. Someone behind me kept replaying the same video over and over. A guy on a bike was shouting random lyrics, getting half of them wrong. None of it mattered. The night had already lodged itself somewhere permanent.
Cities remember nights like this. Not in official records, but in the way people talk about them weeks later, months later. You could feel Guwahati stretching a bit, as if it had discovered a new room inside itself. And once a city discovers that space, it rarely shrinks back.
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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.
