Knocking on heaven’s door.

The smallest thing makes me cry these days.

Look what happened the other day.

In the fading light of the day, when my cousin and I sat on the steps and he took out his flute and played me a song. Till then all was fine. When the sharp tones and harsh edges were smoothened by painful practice and afterwards when all that was left was the shadow of the music, he told me- that was your favorite song, wasn’t it? I remember. I practiced it for you.

I wish I had forgotten. When my eyes brimmed with tears, he played me another song. His favorite.

When I wiped the dust off my uncle’s gramophone and thought of the old music we used to listen to, I searched for the old records. I never found them. That evening while waiting for the rain, I heard the rasping voice of a singer crooning in sultry tones on our unused gramophone. Old records from a shop somewhere far far away. For me. We didn’t turn on the light in the parlor. My uncle and I sat in the dark and listened to Lata Mangeshkar call for a lover who would never perhaps come. Only the tears came.

Then when I looked through old albums full of forgotten people, faded sepia tones and the glue that held together all these people and some lost memories. I too would be soon one of those people in old albums- stiff smiles and no color. Myriad monochromes. All the pictures were happy pictures. The pain just couldn’t be captured.

And so I snuck it away. And sometimes wipe away the little translucent crystal droplets of pain.