Falling for you: One Song at a time

10:30 A.M. today, I wake up to Maa's honey-sweet laughter coming from the living room, ‘Norwegian Wood’ pressed under my forearms, sound of preaching azaan, aroma of almond pancakes my little sister is trying hands at for the first time, and a text from you- link of the song that you're clearly obsessed with lately, even though you deny this every time I point it out to you, as if obsessing over something or someone is a derogatory remark. 'You're sending this song to me for a millionth time now. Get over it, maybe?', I text you back, listening to the same song on loop. 

Look, I rarely wake up to a perfect morning - one when my mind is devoid of my thoughts, anxieties, and contemplation of the nightmares I have had the last night. So, when I do have one on my plate, I try to garnish it with my fondest memory- the one of you- the one where we were laughing our hearts out on the streets of a new city,  amused by the funny local dialect that you kept mimicking the entire day, amazed by the fact that people there could not trace the stars in the sky and couldn't feel the breeze messing with their hair and their hearts when walking on the beach; and here comes my favourite part- where we were crossing the stupid busy roads, you looking carefully on both the sides, me looking at you, mindlessly. You held my hand and saved me from tripping on the road but not from falling for you. I envy you for possessing this extreme awareness of the farsighted dangers, and absolute lack of it of the ones inching closer to you- one smile, one stare, at a time.

6:30 P.M. today, you called me for a walk. I sit here on the bench, waiting for you, but my eyes- they follow you while you are walking towards the pretty purple-coloured pizza van parked on the other side of the road. You already know in your heart that it will taste incredibly amazing, don't you? Yes, because you very critically base your opinions about things or places on how they appear, at least at the first sight. I convince my heart thrice that your heart doesn't work in the same fashion when it comes to people. I know you more than anyone else, right? 

I feel like Midori of Norwegian Wood, waiting for Toru, and unlike what happened in the book, you actually notice me and tell me how the blue kajal brought the radiance on my face. You didn't need to be that specific with the compliment, did you? Wait. Why are you smiling that goddamn smile? God! Why are you feeding me the last slice of the pizza like it's the most normal thing to you? Stop! Why do I feel like a 13 year old suddenly and what's with this entire fucking zoo performing orchestra in my stomach! Oh boy, you really shouldn't be invested and interested in listening to every single word that leaves my mouth, to a degree that I start stuttering. Um, what was I saying. . . stop staring, will you? You hand out the empty pizza box to me and start telling me why you called me here- to tell me about the girl you met in a musical concert three days back and how you're obsessing over her beautiful face and oh, oh. Weird? No. Awkward? A bit, yes. You shouldn't be obsessing over anyone. You should be you.

I'm listening to you, or at least pretending to listen, but you could never guess, right? That's the one thing I'm really good at, listening. And, this is where my bollywood-marinated-cheesy brain starts imagining a parallel universe, with you, in which we meet for the very first time as strangers in a library, a cafe or a waiting room- bonding over Murakami, Spaghetti, or a game of Crossword. We skip the small talk and within a few minutes, I am telling you how I am afraid of death, fond of the Moon, and that I feel like I'm going to disappoint the next person I meet because I've spent my entire life trying not to. And, you are holding my hands and telling me about the things that make your mother laugh, how you cannot tolerate babies crying in a theatre, and you absolutely hate people who skip the beginning of a song just to dance to an upcoming beat. We cannot take our eyes off each other; smiling and giggling, we know we're head-over-heels in love with each other. We kept on talking about the moonless sky, and dancing to your favourite song, rather than pausing the music and confessing our love. Because, this is perfect, right? Who knows what the next song feels like? This, the one we're dancing to, shouldn't be paused and even though the world has made me believe that I'm a terrible dancer, right now, I don't ever want to stop dancing with you.

The point is, I feel like I'm like an airplane, wheezing across the sky, used to strangers clapping or cheering at my flight, used to providing every passenger with hospitality that they've only dreamt of. But, you, my love, are a boy who's never been on an airplane before and fears heights, panics at the slightest turbulence, and is tired of fitting in closed spaces just to make others comfortable. Trouble! I feel like you, my love, are a journal compiled of the most beautiful lines of a Murakami book. You bring my heart warmth and wholesomeness. I, on the other hand, am the complete Murakami book, that consumes you wholly, throughout the reading and once it ends,  it doesn't make sense at once unless it makes you question every word of the book you've read till now.  And, you hate reading. I'm very sure because of the number of times you have made fun of my obsession with it. Trouble! So, in this parallel universe, I conclude that we're better apart. You're not in here to prove me wrong, thank God! 

"I love you," you scream, bringing me back to you, here, at this bench. You continue, "How do people use these three words all the time, dude? I cannot like a song for more than a week, let alone a person with tonnes of complexities."

"But, you eventually fall in love with a playlist of your favourite songs, no? Just keep shuffling, until you find the song you crave for, everytime you play the playlist, idiot. You can never like a song or a person, in the same way, for eternity." You laughed at my pointless conversation fillers. That goddamn laugh. 

While hugging you goodbye, I see 'Norwegian Wood' peeping out of the slight unzipped corner of your bag. I smile. Maybe, I'm not the only one falling. I like to think so. I reach home only to find your favourite song playing on Papa's iPod. Maybe, people use 'I love you' all the time because it's easy and reassuring but in reality, they're  falling in love- one page, one song at a time. 

-Megha