The Sound of Love

My mother’s voice resonates against my heart, like a bronze bell ringing the right distance away. “Ri-piii,” she coos away with hope, leaning on the inevitability of my materialisation.

The roundness of raindrops is forming into puddles as I bring in its constituents under my sticky high tops. Pch-pch-pch-pch I go owning my clumsy demeanour, messy attire, and naive confidence in being the one to restore order in my creator’s world. She’s upstairs, the kettle is sizzling downstairs, and dadi ke kamre se shlok ki awaaz hath se nikal rahi hai. You hear it, you feel it, but you can never digest it.

Our house is never silent. Even in the dead of night the walls unwind into howls, while the watchman’s cane goes tukh-tukh-tukh. I have come to find a comfort in these peripheral noises. I half wonder if I’ll ever be able to hear myself if the sounds that define me left the space.

The gear shifts. The car accelerates. Strong inertia mixed with the stench of comfort throws me backwards on my passenger seat. Pride runs wild among those who love to drive. The joy is boundless when they like to share it with you.

Ping… The phone buzzes as the screen lights up. With half open eyes I read the name of a friend miles away. The excitement rushing through me has a vibration of its own.

Sometimes, the heart gets so full that it empties out into smiles. It often happens that you have a phone in your hand at such moments. A deep applause in an intangible relationship recently explained the irony to me. They say you’re losing out on real experiences while perusing your phone. But here I find a warmth that I’ve been missing since ages, tucked away in memories of when I last met my companion. A few words strung together bring a smile to my face. Sometimes, this is how love communicates.

The language of love is not so complex. It’s a subtle one, seeping into souls and filling silences until life feels whole again.

It’s formed in the gentle kiss you wake a lover with—because there’s nothing softer to break the spell of their vulnerability with. It’s the maturity in rustling leaves—as if they know the truths rushing through your mind while you pull yourself together under their shade.

It’s silver as a squeaky overshare, crimson as a fit of rage only thrown at those who understand.

Love resides in the meeting of eyes. In the collision of hearts, with the overbearing fact that you’ve been swept away; held captive by a moment of their truth for eternities to come.

It resides in the cautious glances of a teacher, a mentor ever-present to show your mistakes only so you can learn from them.

And in the comfort you find resting your head on your knees, lies the connotation to its entire vocabulary. For if your eyes breed empathy, suffering becomes an experience. If your hands pat your own back, a lost soul becomes intriguing. When you’re comfortable in your silence, every sound becomes a cacophony of affection. When you fall back to sleep after a brief sigh of surprise, suddenly there is nothing more left to be afraid of.
And you’re ready to love just anything.

Feature image: Ria Gupta