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.
Love

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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