Musical Chronicling: Part Deux

(Play before reading.)

“When the world comes crashing down, I’ll find you if you hide.”

She waited, she had been waiting for quite some time, in the waiting room. So much happened in waiting rooms; fraction of a lifetime, an infinitesimal integration of unforgettable moments of infinitesimal lives happened there. Prayers being offered, celebrations happening, reunions, hope rekindling, lives starting afresh- waiting rooms witnessed them all.

Today, it was witnessing a renewing faith in God as she prayed and waited for her angel, her angel draped in a white coat, carrying news that would alter her life forever. Her wife was in the operation theatre, in labor, (hopefully) delivering their first child.

They both had got married just three months ago and had been together for a little over four years. It was the second serious relationship for both of them who were- then-  very much over the prime of their lives. Both despondent with their personal lives, they contacted each other after a long time of negligible communication. Their first meeting in over fifteen years was awkward and both were certain that they would never see the other again.

There is certain power in promises, however, that they get themselves fulfilled. Destiny, or fate or merely the ‘pinky promise’ that they had made when they were nine, brought them together on their first date after a week of their meeting. They kissed on her doorstep and three dates later, they were engaged.

People called them crazy and there were times when theyselves wondered if it had all been done in a hurry, but they were happier than they’d ever been in a long time and three years later, they shared an apartment, two dogs and both had ravishing careers. The spark was still there but something was needed.

They started looking for ways for either of them to get impregnated. Artificial insemination appealed to them both. They doctors, however, were cynical. Their ages were a little troublesome and there might be complication in delivery, if impregnated. They agreed and both underwent the procedure. Only one of them was successful. Six months in, they got married, one with a bulging stomach and it was very hilarious watching her having to use the restroom every half hour.

The eighth and ninth months had been troublesome. There were a lot of false alarms and twice, she had to be rushed into emergency for something or the other. There were a lot of sleepless nights, hurling, shouting, and unavoidable negativity. Their love for the other, however, remained unchanged, if not stronger. Given the history, the doctor had her in the hospital, secured, a week before the due date. Which brought both of them to today.

Sitting in the waiting room, a leg stamping the floor, prayer on the mouth and a tissue in hand, she waited. She wondered how life would be if it happened and she wondered how life would be if it didn’t. She wondered if their relationship would ever stay the same if it did happen. Or would either of them ever recover from the lingering ‘could-have-beens’ that would scar their lives forever. Whatever the outcome, all she wished for was the love of her life, her wife to be fine. Suddenly, the door opened, and the doctor stepped out, facemask on, poker faced. She took off her mask, still straight faced, and proclaimed, “It’s a girl,” starting to grin ear to ear.

Later that night, when one mother and the baby were peacefully asleep, another mother sat in the room, and on the same tissue she had clutched that morning, wrote, “I’ll always love you both. I’ll always protect you both. Even when the world comes crashing down, I’ll find you if you hide.

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Musical Chronicling: Part One 

(Play it before reading.)

 

“With an urgent, careful stare, and some panic in those eyes.”

My father loved three things. He loved me. He loved me how a moth loves the flame. I was his oxygen. The second was hunting. He excelled at it. He loved to feel recoil of the gun as the bullet left the muzzle. Third, he loved listening to his favorite song- Lifeline- on his CD player, often with some alcohol by his side.

He taught me the basics of hunting when I was eight and by the time, I could shoot a deer behind me relying on just the whisper of the leaves, he was no longer there. He had perished. He left us a lot of thing, both tangible and intangible and we all loved him, but there were two things I refused to share with anyone. My knowledge of the game and his CD. I never heard the song, but I kept it. It was mine and it was his.

It was snowing outside today when I left to hunt. Usually, hunting in snow is either very easy or very difficult. It is easy when the snow is falling with the grace of poetry and it is falling with wisdom, in soothing whispers with the air and the beauty that snow is falling now, captivating every thought on its mush. It is difficult when it comes down in the form of sleet, each jagged end of the flake seeking damage and blood and hatred and each jagged end looking for vengeance and for justice and revenge. I usually avoid hunting then. Luckily, the hunt today was easy.

I know my way in the forest and I knew of the lake where all the deer gather for water, the only lake in the vicinity that, bafflingly, remains unfrozen at such extreme temperatures. From behind the cover of the snow laden trees, I spotted a lone deer, gulping water, unaware that this is the last time he would be doing something like that.

Though I hunt, I always try to give them a death that is peaceful and I prefer to keep them in dark about my arrow until it pierces their succulent flank. There is something piercing about the look they give you when they realize what is going to come. It is haunting and it gives me sleepless night. It is the last time it sees something and it is the face of a killer. Me. I do not like to think about it.

I was taking my stance and I was almost ready to shoot when suddenly, I stepped on some frozen ice and grabbed the leaves ahead of me to avoid falling. I regained my balanced using some leaves and then I froze. I had broken the most basic rule: do not draw attention to yourself or you may lose the prey. I slowly lifted my neck to look up to the deer. There it stood, its hazel-brown coat striking against the white background. Emanating innocence, it looked so blissful, its eyes studying me until it saw the bow in my hand. Terror replacing the tranquility in its eyes, it stared into my eyes for a moment, and started to run, barely five yards before my arrow penetrated its flank.

Despite the slight exhilaration that came with one prey down, I stood stunned. Its eyes  had done something to me; they had brought something to my mind that I’d not thought of, for a long time, it brought to me the lines of my father’s favorite song.

“With an urgent, careful stare, and some panic in those eyes.”

That night, I did something I’d never done before: I took out a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, poured myself a glass, and drowned my tears in the soulful melody of the Angels and Airwaves.

Music Stories.

If I am asked to lists something that I really enjoy, it would be be sleeping, eating, travelling, celebrating, reading, cooking, listening to music and writing.

My next few posts are going to combine two of my pleasures: listening to music and writing. I believe in the power of words and I believe in the strength of thoughts and actions. I believe in the sanctity of music and I believe in the power of hope.

The next few posts will show how music has changed lives; how music has kept people motivated and hopeful, how music has helped people in times of sadness and in times of happiness, how music has helped us shed tears and how music has left our souls empty and how music has created us.

I would like to call this series: Musical Chronicling: A Story of Mankind United Through Music.

Musical Chronocling

Keep tuned in for the first post.

Fall For A Magician.

Fall for a magician. Fall in love with a magician, a magician whose words weave mystical lands in thin air, who draws blind faith of a fading summer, whose voice makes the insides warm and squishy and it is as if everything is just right.

Fall for someone who cannot admire you enough despite the imperfections that you make evident, complaining; someone who lends to these imperfections a rhythm, a symphony, a song, a tune while stringing their guitar in the morning, while you indulge in some breakfast in bed that they prepared for you, in a voice so beautiful that it makes you giggle and blush.

Fall for someone who isn’t afraid to tell you how they fell for you; someone who chooses the right words and isn’t hesitant to tell you when it happened, almost like two worlds colliding, two universes colliding and being one for eternity; someone who can write a book about how they love the way you brush your hair, or the small mole on your back, or the color of your eye, or the glint n your hair when sunlight falls on it.

Fall for someone who paints you while you sit engrossed in your book, someone who converges the two you’s: the one of their dreams and the one that is you, in yellows and reds and in colors unseen and shades unnoticed, small details that give incredible depth and beauty and charm and poise to that simple crayon painting, making it so beautiful to look at, that it hurts.

Fall for someone who makes you their muse. That way, it doesn’t matter if you live or you die, if you laugh or cry, if it works or if it doesn’t, because it will always be there when you’re sad or lonely or depressed and you feel unloved and ugly, and maybe for just some time, your song, your poem, your picture will make you happy, and maybe, just maybe, make everything better for a while.

So fall in love with a magician, and it might just the be the best thing you would have ever done.