Shalini, as is

She’s been up for a while now. She can hear December rain pattering against the loose window pane. Even the fan is making her feet cold, she cannot seem to will them out from beneath the sheets. She can now smell vethakozhambu from the kitchen. She can picture Amma humming something Saroja Devi as she stirs the cabbage in the pan. Yesudas’s voice finds its way through the small creek in her room door, as little excitedly throws a soft toy against the floor – the peals of his laughter becoming one with the sound of the tiny bells in his toy. In a whir of 20 minutes, Amma manages to shove her out of bed, pack her a dabba for lunch, and resign to her usual spot on the floor, back leaning against the sofa, legs stretched, consuming her whatsapp forwards for the day, tapping through them with one finger. Little comes prancing like a tiny cub, gleefully smiling his 4-teethed smile at her. She scoops him up as he claims territory, spraying on her nose, ‘Tithi! Tithiii!’ Today, she is early for rehearsals. She’s opened up the floor, texted everybody else, and has a good 30 minutes before anyone arrives. She opens up her dripping hair, looking out the balcony, as the house pets find their way and settle around her, nudging themselves in for a warm spot. She turns the playlist on her phone on, scrunching her hair, breathing in the moisture hanging in the air, and it hits her unannounced. Shuffle’s on, and Rafi’s singing, and she is both perplexed and angry even as she feels the tinge of pain inflict through her nose right up to her eyes, collecting themselves helplessly, almost cruelly, mocking at how unprepared she was, even though in a way, she always knew. Her head falls down, hands holding each other by the fingers, unable to collect all that cruises through her, even as Asha Bhosle joins along. Her lips almost involuntarily begin to mouth the lyrics, a barely feeble wisp of air escaping through, as the first vulnerable, soft sob escapes her throat. Her head drops again, the wind working along, pushing her curls in front of her face, letting her have a moment. The song has now hit a crescendo, Rafi pleading, asking her to stay for just a little longer, what’s the hurry, don’t go, please? As the tears hit the watch on her hand, she twiddles with it, tugging at the strap, almost begging, willing it to bring back the person, enough with the memories.. The wind picks up pace, the intonation of the song finds a more grounded plane; Rafi says that life will throw a lot of challenges our way, and then goes on to sing that they’re not complaints, it’s all love.. She’s up on the terrace, sitting atop her spot, watching the electric train go past the extraordinarily orange clouds today, painting her face a shade of subtle pink. She looks at me and smiles. It starts on her lips, reaches her slightly puffy eyes, and settles in her teeth almost reluctantly peeking out, as we share a silent moment, knowing neither of us have it in us to break it. A lone airplane flies above her head, thousands of kilometres away. She watches the sky, I her hair flying like the brush that painted it so. Appa’s around. In the sunsets she so carefully collects everyday, in the old Hindi songs he introduced her to, in the blurry, happy photos on her phone, in the old ticking metal strap on her wrist, and if you quite see from this place I am seeing it all from, in the raw nerve lines that run through her arms, in her kind, endless eyes, and the whole of her being. ** It would make soaking these words and seeing the pictures so much more meaningful if you scroll past after hitting play on this song. :)