The piece of music

 The slow ticking of a table clock

The distant thumping of a hammer on a wooden panel

The chinking of the metalled tip of my hoodie against the wall while I slowly turn into a complete circle,carefully in soft full circles,inward and inward,as if in a state of trance,waltzing away,dancing away,singing away..into this room full of fragrant daisies trimmed and fit into glass bottles;Where I can hear Granpa’s muffled snores and the clinking of the silver he uses so deftly.

Where I can smell my maternal grandma’s Peach and Glycerine soap when she’s just stepped out of the stall with the sari wrapped around her body like the coils of a boa constrictor while she dawdles her way to her bedroom.

Where I can taste the rain on my tongue-the same rain that washed my 13 year old Sophia’s body clean when she lay on Mother Earth-dead and cold.

Where I can touch the happy surface of plastic on my Barbie’s body when I’ve finished giving her a ritzy haircut with the textile scissors from Granny’s sewing kit.

Where I can sense the nostalgia stocked away in dusty cupboards full of half-torn,cinnamon and tanned photographs of my great grandfather looking out into the world from the house that he had finally made for his family.

That room.

That room is where I stood,looking over my shoulder at these pieces of poetry that were suddenly alive,dancing in the fire like tiny woodland creatures running at the onset of a forest fire..hither tither,hither tither,hither tither..where would they go when all that’s left has gone away?

I looked over my shoulder and looked beyond..over the yonder hills,the Farthest Nilgiris,over the streams of clear Ganges,The vastness of the swirling skies and the woods ablaze;that’s when I heard this muzzled music wafting in the breeze,muffled by the dreary fog that walked around like an old man in heavy gum boots.

This music beckoned me.This music looked at me the way Heathcliff looked at Catherine when she lay next to him on the olive lush green grass.This music wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close to his chest till my ears became deaf to the crass cacophony of the world.The only sound I could then hear was the slow,harmonious pumping of his heart like a cork adrift on a storm-torn sea-oblivious and carefree despite the wrecks that the sea engulfed. He held me so close that I couldn’t feel all this sorrow anymore. My spirits rose in currents of candyfloss and sultry vanilla. His smile..was so free.I could almost feel the freedom in it when he threw his head back and laughed .His smile smelt dewy-fresh like drenched citrus groves along the Mediterranean coasts.

It is as if I was blighted with a spell the instant I was born-I never seem to be surfeited by the things I love-my dreary-locked Barbie doll that I’d carry into the rain so often that she almost smelt like she was tailored by Nature,my dusty little piggy bank with paint smeared on all sides tastelessly,my charm bracelet that’s now so old that it almost resembles excavated jewellery from the Harappan Civilization,my trinket box that’s lost the pearls that once adorned its surface. Old has never lost its appeal for me.When I love something,I can’t let it go.It clings to me like a dragonfly holds onto a dandelion. It’s probably a curse but I’ve learnt to live with it.

I feel silly when I look at this type of music..silly that I’m even calling it a ‘type’. I’ve never seen a type like this.This music is original and stirs my heart with envy when another hums the same tune. This music is the kind of music I love.The kind I fight for.The kind I’d hum to myself day and night, unceasingly, untiringly.

The kind of music that I escape to when I’m overcome by the weight of the baggage my shoulders are weary of carrying.

I don’t say the things that I want because I’m afraid.

This music makes me brave-Brave enough to dabble with subjects I usually don’t,brave enough to say the wrong things when I want to,brave enough to someday tell the world who I am and how I feel.

I didn’t create this music but I love it enough to someday make it mine.


3 thoughts on “The piece of music”

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