Her Song

On Frankaffe, Sushrut Munje shares how favorite songs are in fact moments written down in an attempt to remember them once the time is past.
courtesy: Clare Elsaesser

What’s my favorite song, she asked. I looked up from the elaborately made pizza, startled, and gazed into the brownness of her bright eyes. Just how brown they were. A rich roast. They had a song of their own.

I hesitated, unsure of how to phrase the one that wakes you up out of the deepest slumber, plays on your lips like a teasing kiss, makes you crave for more. The song which swims with all abandon, walks in with a flourish, bounces on your walls and straight into you. It asks for no permission, and you hum the melody for evenings to come.

She was expecting an answer, and I smiled. It was the smile of a Saturday Song, which stretches out in anticipation of tomorrow’s sun. The music is always the slow kind, with loops and twirls, living life in a stroll. It holds your hand, asking you to slow down and taste the wetness around.

I like the song which drives my car, I explained, as she slipped a curl behind her pink ear. I like the song which holds me the way I hold it, asks questions which push against what is. I described the edginess of red wine, mischief in a stately gown. I described the boldness of an espresso, softened by a dollop of cream.

She was curious to know more. Our bread hadn’t been baked in the same oven. The years I had spent learning how to write were the years she had learnt how to perform a ballet to die for. I was treading the waters with caution, the moments were too beautiful to live through.

Sipping some of the delicious iced tea on the table, I spoke of the song which flies out to the unimaginable heights, as we only attempt to dream of the clouds that high. I outlined the curves of a song which pushes me in a corner the way I would push a dream, and makes mad love. I wrote two verses for her then, wrapped in an intimate dance, thriving on the balance, the colors of one blending into the colors of another, the promise of a dusk at dawn.

She smiled a glowing one, a knowing one. It was a quick hug, yet had the tingle of a starry evening, the thrill of a flight. She had realized that there was no one song which I fancied, and the same words formed a new one every season.

She stood complete then, a composed poetry, strings being allowed to toy with a new tune that night – an utter delight.

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