"Life is the price we pay for running away from death "
































































She sat there by the window sill, as usual resting her head on the grille, with that sullen hard stare into nothingness. Her personality was so morose, so wooden, that even though I had lived-in with her for a few months, I had not managed to start even a basic conversation with her. Yet I was not gonna give up. I sat right there, day after day, on the couch opposite her, and ogled at her for hours at a stretch, wondering which would break first: my reticence or her hesitance?

We would sit together for hours without exchanging even as much as a word; but I never felt a loss. Because we were always connected, through something deeper, something sublime that wafted over invisible waves, which lifted our souls to take flight towards an aesthetic ground somewhere. A ground where we both danced, to some divine reverberation that, as Tagore would say, spread from horizon to horizon.
 
Every evening I had this amazing experience with her, and, guess what? All of this was before we had even gotten started on a formal conversation.
 
I felt like I was deeply in love with her. I did not know what love exactly was, but if there ever was a heavenly feeling, and that is what they called love, then this is it, this is it, this is it!
 
Mind you, it isn't a filmy love story we got going here, not some mushy Bollywood romance that starts when handsome guy bumps into pretty lady. We had it going right from childhood. The elders said we made a pair as soon as my baby hands grasped hers. She was tiny then, and that, it seems, made us picture-perfect. Then our paths diverged in the proverbial yellow wood, until I sought her out and got her back into my life.
 
I was now determined never to let her go. Yes, there was some starting trouble on my side, but I am going to hang on. Because it is love; and love never dies, it merely waxes and wanes in its brightness.
 
For days at end I would marvel at her grace: a personality bubbling with euphony, built to dance and chime, yet maintaining that mature silence of wilful and anticipatory repose, like she respected my authority and patiently waited for me to make the first move. I would make faces and mock her sometimes, thinking it may flutter her calm, but she always sat there like a bride on her first night: shy and nervous to initiate any action. I would glance through her person and, with my eyes, caress her glittering earrings, her svelte neck and back, her buxom hip. I yearned so much to cuddle her up. I would fantasize holding her on my lap, with one hand grasping her rear and the other girding her neck, while I struck her chords of passion and warmth.
 
She had the gift of being hungry and satisfied at the same time - of being so evidently hollow yet so replete with fullness. She lay silent all day, yet emanated an aura of palpable music every visible moment. I was just so much in love in with her that in my heart I knew my first move was going to come soon.

She was my guitar, and music was our connection. It connected my soul to her purpose, my existence to her essence. Hers was the music that I dreamt of infusing myself with. Oh the queen of my musical collection, the pride of my artifacts, my wooden-finish-rosewood-fretted-mahogany-bridged-bass-tuned dreadnought acoustic guitar, how much I wish to make your music my own.
 
 
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