That was a fine evening. Sun couldn’t be seen because of the huge building that stood immediate outside the window, but an orange hue befell the room. The curtains did not flip. It was dark inside. And pleasant. She sat on her bed like a sage meditating.
The windows media player window on her laptop screen awaited a finger stroke. She took a deep breath. How would it be, my words, life blown into it by her voice?
She clicked the play button. The song. Music raised in a slow pace, Sithara's melodious voice started tiding the room. She closed her eyes.
...Hey rainbow, as the clouds fell like your song, my heart became a timid earthen veena. Are these red evenings getting interwoven and precipitating as mist in my silences?
Ripples glided out of the music Jithu had religiously composed.
...When the white stars smile, my heart becomes the blue moon. Like the dewdrop on a red rose, my heart starts to melt. The line of a song strokes my heart. The sting of a pain strokes my heart.
A lump clogged her throat.
Is this the inside of my soul which I myself had not known?
...The petal of a flower shed on earth like a poem.(Did you) hear the soft midnight song of the river? My dreams fly as the wings of a wind. Like waves (it) searches for shores.
She opened the windows and gazed out. Air breezed over her locks.
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