Your Song

People love music. Some catch the notes. Others,. The lyrics. And I wait for a story. A story that unfolds in a song, Emotions confessed. Perhaps some regretted Reason I love Folk songs is that they always convey a story, perhaps a story from history or legends, long lost in the past.

Then there are the romantic tunes, Songs that make your heart ache. Or perhaps take you on a trip down nostalgia lane. There are some songs you carefully avoid in your playlist. But never delete them, I wonder why. Hope? Or the habit of holding on to memories? Or perhaps a reminder that the people and places are not ours anymore. Sometimes when you brave your feelings to listen to them, they take you back to places where the song doesn't feel the same any more. Is it because of the people and places we associate with them, or perhaps that one person who gave us that song?

Some songs make you feel like you are in a scene of a movie. Certain songs you prefer to play on your long drives, sync and imagine your hair blowing in the wind in slow motion. Then some songs take you to a world of imagination.

Songs that can make you dream and hope. Then there are the patriotic ones that leave you with pride, moist eyes and goosebumps. So many feelings and one source: Songs. Where Poetry meets Music...

So, the best way to let someone know they mean so much to you? Find them a song meant just for you two. The best way to hold on to a place? Listen to a song sitting there. A song that can be a memory, or lyrics the feelings unsaid. Even if the person leaves, or you come away from the place, every time the song plays, you will go back there and feel the way you felt when you chose that song.

© Suranya

Renaissance

I love those places where signal strength is low,

Where phones don't work and you are truly alone.

I love those (places) the most where the arches speak,

Domes speak of stories long forgotten in History.

In them, I see His stories, the past that I seek.

Once Upon A Time, I had this feeling.

I chanced upon the perfect place

Dreams came true there, so strongly I felt!

The water of an unnamed Lake met the gentle breeze.

The white stoned Domes, standing in silence,

For a few centuries.

A silence full of noises, of a past that haunts.

There was also a lamp flickering, fighting the wind.

A plaque, attributed to a Braveheart and his kin.

There I was, sitting on the marble, staring at Him;

What remains of Him perhaps, a name, fame, ashes and memories

Immortal deeds, innumerable stories, waiting to be told.

The silence there spoke, more than anyone else ever did.

They say people are granted a new life,

With every life-altering moment.

Do you know, 

They sometimes meet themselves as well,

In these rare moments?

Disconnecting myself from the world around me,

This was my Renaissance.

Suranya

The Shower

Reaching home at 4AM, Esha ran to the bathroom. She turned on the shower. The water was cold and prickled her soft, hot skin like raindrops. It trickled down her red dress to the floor. Her eye makeup was smudged. It dripped down the cheeks. She did not care. She closed her eyes and let the water cleanse her body. Slowly, she slipped out of the dress and let the water droplets touch her naked, exposed skin. It erupted into goosebumps. She rubbed at her red lips with her painted nails; her ruined makeup, waist, hands and every inch of her body that was touched needed to be cleansed. She breathed in, heavily, letting out a sigh, as silent teardrops mixed with the water. Only those were salty to taste. She sat down on the tiled floor, unaware of how many minutes or hours had passed by. The water flow decreased. She wearily turned off the tap. The dry clean towel waited to drape itself around her naked body. She had finally cleaned the sins of the night. An escort had walked in. The mother walked out. She counted the money in her purse with a smile. Finally, her child's school fees will be paid.

© Suranya

Not for Sale

The bride's relatives sat talking of a female trafficking racket busted in the city. She sat silent, watching them say how sorry the state of the country. They made her smile. Not all girls were sold the same way. Some transactions were more elite. Sitting pretty among her belongings was her price. The 'educated' called it Gifts, not Dowry.

© Suranya