This morning, I heard the faint strands of a song I used to love in another time. An era ago, or so it seems. It was playing in a car that drove past mine, happy faces, people listening to it with wonder.
I realise, I still love the song, I always will. But I haven’t listened to it in years.
Not since the last time I played it on my phone as Mom and I made our way to the hospital. The song has slid into deep recesses of my brain, loved and yet unloved, both at once.
The song makes me think of rain-washed evenings when Mom and I ate pakoras while sitting on the balcony. The sky overcast, but our thoughts fresh and bright and flowing. Conversations always flowed with Mom; they were unafraid of judgment or being “annoying”.
The song played on the new laptop Mom and Dad got me for a birthday, the laptop I carried to Pune when I first moved here, on nights when I loved my new life and yet missed the familiar smell of chicken curry in Granny’s kitchen.
I walked in step with the song on many meaningful mornings, my mind full of resolutions for the day, my heart light as a bird, my dreams from the night before lighting up the day ahead.
Somewhere along the way, noise deafened the song: car horns, screaming people, doubt, loss.
The song is back in my mind now. It is playing gently somewhere, like the burbling of a jungle stream or the chirping of dawn birds on faraway hills.
I wonder if I still know the words to the song. I guess the only way I’ll know for sure is if I sing, or at least, try to sing along.