Deep Pockets

The hardship of her father ceased all the descriptive words to convey the unfiltered emotions that often were curtailed behind his cheerful smile. Not a single sign did the wretched heart let upon his wrinkled skin that was drooping with time. His eyes had their own vocabulary. If only somebody could care enough to understand the polished happiness.

Sometime during 1997
The state government refused to release the salaries of its employees. Reason(s) remained vague.

An off colored pair of brown formal shoe he wore to office everyday. Saturdays fall into the weekday category  in India. Especially, for the government employees

"The employees are again planning for a strike tomorrow. The government has not yet reacted to the previous strikes. I am not hopeful about this one either.  It is sick of them to be witnessing so much disdain among public and yet taking no action at all", he sighed to my mother while I watched him disentangle the shoe lace slowly.

"It was in the news paper today. I can only pray to the almighty to fix things up as soon as possible. But I beg of you to keep yourself away from all this as much as possible. Last week one of the employees from the Electricity board was abducted and..." I could see the fear piling up on her face. It was not easy. It was not easy for a man. It was not easy for his lady.
"It's been 6 months already since they released my pay cheque. It is disturbing our budget."
''Everything will be fine..soon", my mother cleared up her throat, gathering courage.


Frequent power cuts are not so surprising in India. Infrequent are. I really loved that part of summer evenings. Darkness brought a myriad of lessons and advises and visions and countless beautiful dreams along with it. I'd cling on to my father's lap and listen to him for hours. The fireflies barely chose to miss it, too. He'd often talk about the reality and possibility, From You are to You would be, in a very sorted and gentler way; as easy to inspire me. Amidst, he'd crack silly jokes to check if I fell asleep. To put it otherwise, he'd give me a gest of all that life is about. The amazement lied in everything that we discussed. I was too young to comprehend all that he said, but having been so attentive back then pays off today. Time was mystic then. It is so now.

"Stop sulking, Meera. It's just 10 rupees! Take it as a lesson, not disappointment. Here.", he offers me a 100 rupees note.  I stood jaw dropped.
"100? I don't deserve this, Papa". It was so foolish of me to be losing those 10 rupees. I wanted to buy a gift for you this birthday"
Ït's not for you to decide what you deserve, unless the very thought itself makes you happy. Alright? The universe, in time, will have you encounter with people who do and would love you so dearly, Meera. Love is all that you deserve, my little warrior. Believe. If you've got to choose between a diamond and someone who loves you with all their might, go for the latter. Always.

"Why, Papa? Certainly, Diamonds would make me happier" My curiosity raised to an extent of disappointment because I could not understand why would I choose people over a stone, something that's unlikely to betray.
"You'll know it very soon", he laughs

"It is more pleasing to know of your intentions. Money is definitely something, Meera. But it's absence should never break you down. Life is too wonderful to be lived solely to fill pockets. Come on now. Get your hands dirty in the garden. We've got a hell lot of work this spring"
I was at ease, like always, I admit. How easy it was to commit a mistake, learn from it and just let it pass. His support has been more than just a shelter to my flaws, realization and improvement. Smartly with time he's been nurturing and preparing his little one to face the predictable unpredictability of life courageously.








Gratitude. Honesty. Optimism. Courage.
Earned.
Thank you, Papa

I Wish you a very Happy Birthday and a healthy wealthy life ahead

Amma #02

Wakilayn Aunty is Amma's closest friend. She has watched me growing up, has witnessed my father lullabying me to sleep, my mother searching for her reflection in me, and those tiny eyes weaving several unintended dreams, everyday. Life ambitions quickly change with the frequency of "What do you wish to be when you grow up, beti?" Had I known the meaning of my name, I'd have never overestimated the solitude of vague ambitions.

My fondness for Mangoes can never wither. Monsoons are typically awaited for this very reason. Wakilayn Aunty's fruit yard was never a miss by the neighborhood children. Yet, she preserved some good fresh seasonal fruits for me. It was more like a tradition back then. And to me, it always felt like home to be around her. Everyone in the neighborhood addressed her so- Wakilayn, because her husband was a Wakil Sahib, a Lawyer. He was a rudimentary man, yet an introvert. His drowning career was not a secret to anyone but the title never really let his personality rot. However, his ruefulness could never find an escape. There was not a day when he did not survive by medicines. His poor health was consuming him day by day, bit by bit, and that all was clearly engraved on his face. The way he smiled, the way he communicated, the drooping shimmer in his eyes-Everything whispered about how time was gradually causing a decay. As a child, fear drummed my heart every time I encountered him. Today, sympathy has replaced that fear. That sympathy has taken over also because there were days when I heard his wife crying before my mother for being beaten up by him. His frustrations and disappointments, rather than finding a solution to fix things up, attacked the readily available prey to get off his nerves. There is no denying about the family's wealth, of course. But, there is no abstinence from the blunt truth, either.  Wakilayn Aunty longed for a daughter, Amma says, and that she was torn between the sorrow of having A LOT and not having at all. In our society, men are overrated. A male child is worth a brag. Aunty had a son. He inherited a lot from his father. The sub-ordinance part, as well.
"Oh just shut up, Maa. Do you think I am going to sit here and wait until you die? I and Sherry are moving out of this city. You don't need to worry about us", I heard him yelling at his mother once while making my way towards the squirrel nest at the top of one of the trees in the yard.
"No, beta. Why would you? I, in fact, liberate you from all the bondages that a son should oblige by. I do not confine you to my life any more. All I want is you to be happy", a feeble, cracking voice of his mother said more than the words could ever do.
Wakilayn Aunty's son was embarrassed to talk about his parents among his friends. He disliked introducing an old hunchbacked mother and a scraggy sick father to his friends. That regret of not having a glamorous lavish life also disconnected  him from the society. His wife, Sherry, followed him.

"A woman always yearns for a man's love. Always. A true love of that one man. To be wrapped up around his comforting arms is more promising than being caged in a handsome bungalow, polished with wealth. Do you see my misfortune, behen?"
Amma has known everything about Wakilayn Aunty. But knowing is not the same as helping, and helping is not the same as healing. Amma was helpless. She could listen to her friend, compose her, lend shoulder to weep upon, but  never could provide the love of a man. The love that Wakilayn Aunty always counted on her husband for, and the only son.
I remember once she tailored a gorgeous yellow coloured frock for me, with a contrasting pink bow at the back. "This one is for you, beti. This color suits you very well" Her smile was contending, or perhaps, I just contemplated so


Amma once had been to Wakilayn Aunty's house to get a sapling of it. When she got back, there was no good sign on her face. She looked at me, "Don't ask me anything today"

After a couple of days, while she caught me trying out her favourite Saree on myself, she said
"Beti, never be like her. A hyped beauty she is. Just a hyped beauty and all hollow inside. What sort of a woman would break a family? She said it outright to Wakilayn that her old age would remain solitary. What a shame! I feel with Wakilayn.  Beauty is mortal, character is not. Always remember that. You are my flower, beti. May you get whatsoever you wish for. No matter how rich you become, how pretty you get, or how content you are with your life, always remember one thing, Beti, Old people are no less than toddlers. They need more attention, more love. But unlike children, they won't show it, they won't tell you. They won't cry when you hurt them with words or walk away in silence. You gotta understand. A mother's love and a father's pride for their children should account to more than an ounce of happiness everyday as long as their children live. While every drop of their tear is death crawling towards. A wonderful young girl, that's what you are. The day you find your partner poised with immense love and gratitude,  get married. Get married to the man, and shower your love upon his family, his old parents, for they would be wishing for and foreseeing a better life even before your advent in their family. Manifest the love, the love of a woman. With that, you complete yourself, and everybody connected to you. You carry that pride. Always"

Amma was in tears. I was imagining of my life to be-  when my odd gray hair and wrinkled face would define my appearance. Would life be as good as it is today, with Amma and Baba? Would I covet love, too, or someone like Wakilayn Aunty would teach me one more important lesson of life?

An ugly visitor

A diary entry:

December 24, 1999  ; 00h10

Dear diary
First of all, I wish you a wonderful Christmas and  happy 20th to me. Second, I am sorry for reaching you 10 minutes late . There is nothing extraordinary and exciting to share at present, but just that I am looking forward to lighting my favorite candle at church this morning. You know, it is really a gorgeous one. A scintillating blue colored candle. With each of its purest melting wax would my deepest prayers be heard, I believe, because this time I have to request for a couple of real SERIOUS things from the lord. They say that prayers should not be shared with anyone , but your lord. Dear diary, you are closest to me. My best friend ever since I found myself caught in the desperation to show my bare self to. Except you, otherwise, who else would have ever known what sort of beauty do my eyes long for and what does my heart whisper? 

Darling, I will tell you something today. Something that I could not erase the memories of, and whenever it hovers my head, a gush of shame and guilt and pain runs down my veins. My skin spills out a sweat of discomfort and embarrassment. My whole body aches with anger and disgust. 
 I do not remember my exact age, I was that young, when he touched me inappropriately for the first time . I was not sure if that was right, but that was certainly not a familiar touch. Not until I got used to it with his every advent at my house.
Raman has always been close to my family. In fact, my father trusted him so much that he chose to pull Raman out of the village and educate him in the city we live in. My uncle could have never afforded it, otherwise. That was long before I was born. I am 20 years younger than Raman. 20 years! The day Raman was selected in the Army, I remember my mother offering sweets to the poor children who came to pick edibles from the dumps down the street. My father, on the other hand, was proud to see his efforts paying off. 
"My sweet little, Anna, come here. Sit on my lap, my doll", that used to be Raman's greeting statement for me. While my mother engaged herself preparing cuisines for him, he'd stealthily run his fingers through my hair, my body,.. under my dress. And as soon as my mother arrived, he'd be a different man. Someone totally different than a second ago. His jovial attitude never really flickered a hint to others, not even the slightest, of the evil inside of him.  
I was succumbed to my ignorance. He'd often find a place to take me to, where no one else could hear me cry, just in case his grip slipped off my mouth. My heart bled. Every time. Every time he fooled my family to secretly take me away at an abandoned place, I'd sob to take a glimpse of my father, and brother because Raman taught me the value of blood relation, Love and family. That one good thing he did, yes.
"Here goes my girl. We are almost done. Today, I'd get you a chocolate , my obedient doll", he'd whisper to me every time before heaving the final sigh.
I would not define it as a "moment". Moments are ought to be beautiful. 
Every time I got back home after that, I remember taking shower for long, longer than usual and harsher than ever before. I'd scrub my skin just too hard until I end up hurting myself. I'd wash my hair vigorously to get rid off the minutest of his details. But, unfortunately nothing worked never. That feeling of disgust never could subside. His presence always lingered beneath my skin. It was never easy to swallow it all down, but I did. I do not know how, but I did.
There were days when I tried sharing it with my mother but, perhaps, she could not understand or perhaps, I was unclear. Every time Raman visited home, it used to be for 2 days at least. And every time he did, I'd try to spend most of my time at school and with homeworks, making sure that my father or brother were around. One thing that I could not find an escape from was to show him respect in public. After all, he was my cousin.
My childhood rooted a strong intuition in me about manhood, feminism, sexuality and so much more that my growing up has been quite assertive and rational. Men and women are not an object to me. Neither are they subjective. There is a superlative degree of spirituality involved somewhere in between two bodies, I am sure of that. And that can never be defined by dominance. I now know who and what I am looking for. One's individuality should be denominated by generosity first, respect second and love third. Rest all follows.
It's been a while since I confronted Raman. My dear, this is one of the things that I'd be asking the almighty for- to bestow me with enough courage that I do not need someone else to help me get off the hook. I want enough strength to just shove all my anger at Raman, all at once, so hard that the child that still weeps and yearns for justice within sometimes could find a solace. I promise to protect her, wrap her dearly in arms this time, close to my heart, forever. I promise

See you, love. 
.................

January 4, 2004 
Raman is now married and blessed with a girl child.

"Anna! Come here. Look who's here?", mother called her from the living room. While Anna was busy writing her thesis for the seminar next day at college, she guessed it to be her best friend Freddy.
"Nah! He'd have informally hopped inside the room uninvited, anyway. So, who else could it be?"
As she steps outside her room, she saw a child crawling towards her.  A really pretty one. She lifts her up, admires and plays for a while. Right then a manly voice calls her out from behind, "Anna! My lovely doll !! "
A sudden gush of anguish and discomfort grew inside her. That familiar old feeling shook her once again. Anna, before turning back to Raman, threw a glance at his daughter. She was incredibly
beautiful and as delicate as a flower petal. Anna held her a bit more closer to her chest.

Chastity does not dignify a being, it merely classifies between the Love and the Loveless

It was the last time Raman ever showed up.

What languished her voice back then gave her enormous courage to speak up today. But the scars of childhood remained




 







 

Airplanes

What is motivating me to write again? Today, it is the fundamental ''ailment'' that has unfortunately connected thousands of beating hearts with millions of hopeless hopes, daunting dreams, and that certainly is an unfortunate cause for a mediocre livelihood, unhappiness and a biased society. You can not disconnect yourself from the pain of being poor, neither can you pin your feet to the ground when overwhelmed with it.

I have known Shanti since 20 years now. She hails from an exceptionally poor family in my neighborhood. No, not poor. I'd say, She is not rich. Her mother is a maid servant who has been working at our house since a very long time, long before I was born. One thing that Shanti gets offended with is to see someone addressing her mother as a ''maid''. ''My mother is not a maid'', she would yell at me sometimes out of frustration when I insensitively yanked about her social status. I did that everyday, almost everyday. I continued it until my very own fate directed me to taste the bitterness of that state in which Shanti was destined to be, ever since she was born-that restless state of desperate longing for something irresistible.

"You know what, didi ji?" She smiled sheepishly and said one evening while we were watching airplanes frequently crossing the clouds that sheltered my house , making their way to the horizon. We watched it till the minutest of their glimpse faded away.

"I want to ride that airplane and take it to.... umm... to a place where there are good people, lot of money, a place where my mother need not work as a maid." She said all that in a go with several emotions sprouting and curling up on her face.

"You want to be a pilot?"

"What's that, didi ji?"

"A pilot is someone who flies the plane"

"Ah, yes! I want to be that. A pilot"

"But Shanti, you got to be well educated and skilled to be one"

Shanti knew what  I was talking about. She changed the topic quickly for she realized the ground beneath her feet and a pounding heart that really wanted to break through the ribs and set her free, emancipate her from all the aches. It did not take too long for her to realize her family's destitute. The very reason she could not go to school. Although, it did not affect our bonding. She was close to me, yet we were worlds apart. To her, I was somebody to look up to. To me, she was somebody to pour out my frustrations on, kill monotonous time with. Despite spending most of my time with her, I never felt comfortable introducing her to my friends. A pang of embarrassment remained beneath my bones. I had to maintain my social prestige. I had to masquerade the humane side of me behind the glittering social showbiz.

One winter afternoon, while I was passing my time playing crosswords, she comes and sits gingerly next to me. She was dressed up in  my old, ripped clothes, sweaters and a scarf.

"Didi ji, can you please lend me your room heater to us? Just for a day? I promise to return it back by tomorrow as early as I wake up. Also, please convey this message to bibi ji that my mother can not make it to work this week. I will, on her behalf"
Shanti did not learn to request. She begged. Everytime. And that quite often inflicted a discomfort in me, as well as a mean pride.

I brooded for a while.

"Shanti, is everything okay?"

"Mhm", she nodded, clinging her fists one over the other, her eyes fixed to the ground.
A moment of silence and soon she cupped her face in her palms and broke out. Before I could say anything, she started speaking , stammering
"Didi ji, I want to study"
My brain was still trying to recollect, process and adjust to things that were unexpectedly happening before me.
"Didi ji, Remember the other day we discussed about the airplane? And the one who rides it? I want to be that. Can you help me be one, please? Can you teach me? "
Her pleading gesture was creating a lump in my throat, for I could not find a convincing way to tell her that she should stop dreaming about it.
She , the very next moment, comes closer and clutches my hand into both her palms. It was difficult for me to make an eye contact. She was all in tears.
"Didi ji, I know you can teach me. I will do anything you say in return."

A woman should always help another woman. I heard or probably read it somewhere and it did make sense NOW. I pitied, but did not feel
"You can come from tomorrow, Shanti" I placed my hands on her shoulders to compose.
"Ouch" she cried
"What happened?"
Her face turned blue. My mind started making stories, and my subconscious wasn't ready to believe any of them
"Shanti? Can I ?"
"Didi ji, promise me that this is going to be only between both of us. My mother would not spare me otherwise. She would beat me. Again"
As I pulled the layers of clothes off her shoulder, my heart was beating fast, and faster. I could not stop myself from panicking until I noticed those black and blue swollen marks on her shoulders and back, some old scars , some fresh wounds. She quickly covered it all once again beneath the tattered , off colored  clothes.
The silence ached my heart. "How? Who did this to you, Shanti?", I asked

Her lips were gathering courage to speak her heart out. "Yesterday, it was my father"
"Why?"
"I insisted him to stop consuming alcohol. You know, Didi ji, he'd smack down my mother every night. He'd hit her like she is merely a stone. And if I interrupted, he'd beat me too."
Shanti's father was a cobbler. He was a hard working man. Perhaps, he, too, was torn between poverty  and accomplishment. Perhaps, he felt that he's failed as a man, a husband, a father, for there were days when family slept without a loaf of bread. He was in debt, already, and Shanti's mother contributed to cover up the amount with all that she got from her job. The last time I saw Shanti being beaten when she was 9. Her shabby clothes covered the wounds but not the pain. Her face reflected pretty much about her bruised heart
This was my only chance to wash away all those regrets of mocking her so callously. I should have taken this step long ago, but it never occurred to me until I saw the fresh cuts and faded scars on her tender skin. 

I could not spend too much time  grooming her. But, fortunately, she learnt to read and write before I left for my higher education to a different city. A year later, Shanti got married and moved to a different county. She took preliminary classes for school kids, so I heard. Her dream of becoming a pilot remained unfulfilled. The airplanes up above the horizon might be reminding her of that desire to fly. She'd sigh out of disappointment, but that feeling won't be as strong as before. She'd be happy to  see herself write all that she wants to. Her dreams, wishes, ideologies, incidents..and that certainly would help others like Shanti achieve their dreams.

Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world                                            -Nelson Mandela

Amma #01

Her hands are rough enough, palms scarred with those dry nonuniform cracked lines; I notice, behind her thick glasses,  those fading grey eyes that still hold a couple of dreams, hopelessly, though, that has not completely diminished the spark, yet; her hair is gently tied loose that clearly shows her dis-concern towards her appearance. The other afternoon,  I noticed her sitting beside the balcony window that welcomed the cold breeze patting and swaying its curtain sporadically. She seemed completely lost staring at her palms, not sure if she was counting the number of cracks developed over the years and the memories associated with each of them or figuring out the lines of her fate that were hard to recognize now. As a kid I remember Amma spending plenty of time in the Kitchen, experimenting with her recipes, not because she liked to cook, despite being really sick sometimes, but to please and live up to the expectations of her family- her husband, her children. Perhaps her hands got rough with time, with her efforts to helplessly do the best for her family. Amma also loved to stitch. Or so I say, she was a masterpiece at it. It still surprises me how she managed to imagine of those beautiful frilled designs for my robes that usually made me the center of attraction among my friends. She does not stitch anymore. Baba says that her eyesight gradually worsened due to over stressing herself on the sewing machine.
''Amma'', I unexpectedly broke the silence
She hesitatingly looked at me trying to cover up the gush of emotions that flowed like a stream of water across her face. Her lips tried to weave a smile that appeared more like a painful sigh to me. A sigh that swallowed all the thoughts that kept her occupied often, that often compelled her to seek for a corner to sit and remain silent until someone poked.
''Aha, my darling! Come here. Sit with me'', she said placing her left palm beside her lap. ''What have you been up to? Are you done with your client meet? What are they saying? Do you have to leave me and go work with them far away from here? Wh.. Which  place is it? What is it's name? Sorry, I forgot. Old age you see'', She forced a laugh and exhaled soon after assailing so many questions at me. It was obvious of her to be covering up the awkward silence that I noticed.
''That is Japan, Amma. A different country, neighbouring India. My clients are Japanese and want me to work onsite with them''
''A different country? Is it just like India? Do people there look like us?''
I love the way she pronounced India.  
''Yes, Amma. It is nevertheless the same. A bit better, in fact'', I grinned.
Amma was looking into my eyes as if she was trying to find out all the answers to her millions of questions.
''So, are you going to leave me, beti? Are you going to leave me here?'' Before I could answer, she, holding back her tears, continued..
''This world is a terrible thing, beti. It longs for the shimmering beauty of a woman. It longs, longs desperately until it devours all of what a woman is composed of, the best of herself, and soon enough when she fails to give enough of all that once again, she is tossed into the air like a puff of smoke, like a withering autumn flower fallen from its branch she is abandoned forever to be consumed by mother Earth. The woman, who once was a priceless fragile tiara, becomes no less than a burden with time, my beti. You are one such shimmering beauty, my darling, and I am the one that is half decayed already.  I am  afraid, beti. I am afraid to see you suffering what a woman goes through. I do not want you to be a victim of this filthy consortium. It equally feels sick to be so unwillingly helpless to withdraw you from these expected ritual-like endurance test of womenhood''

She was in a flow. A constant flow of something that perforated and spilled the words of wisdom out of her, out of all the experiences that she has had so far.
I interrupted, ''Amma, your hands are beautiful. There is a life line here, you see? You are going to live long. A beautiful long life, Amma."  She distracts herself from the heart to the skin

''Are you serious?'' her face drooped
''Why that expression? Don't you want to...to see me grow into a woman who you immensely be proud of? What would I do without you, Amma?''
''You know, beti, The only day I felt proud of my existence so far was when I saw you for the first time, when I held you in my arms, inevitably observed your beautiful little toes, eyes, lips, and YOU. A child is the greatest gift to a mother, beti. So long I have felt an enormous happiness looking at you grow into a beautiful young woman, an educated one--- a woman that your illiterate Amma could never become.''

I remember Amma escaping from the crowd gatherings at home on weekends, especially when my friends and baba's discussed about our schools and academics--All in English. I remember Amma feeling awkwardly out of place during the parents-teachers meet. And that sometimes annoyed me, for she was not able to interact with my teachers very well, unlike my classmates' mothers.

Suddenly the ground beneath my feet slipped away, and my heart felt heavy enough to remain caged inside my ribs. Suddenly my lungs tried hard to fill in enough of  the meager or absolutely no air around. That one moment.. Just in that one moment, my body gave up holding back on emotions and I lately noticed my mothers palm catching the every drop of tear that fell from my eyes.

55 years of life so far, of those 25 that I have seen, how did she manage, how did she live like that I wonder? When was the last time I felt proud of her , of her presence in my life?

Sometimes realization hits you so hard that it gets really difficult to get over the pain. And then that pain causes you go through a cleansing process , that let the obnoxious absurdity pass by, eventually making you more sane and conscious of your acts. Perhaps, that stirs the realism within.

''Amma, I promise you! '' is all that I remember I said before we headed to attend our family get together that evening

Happy Mother's Day !

The old guy with a guitar

One fine evening, I was having a series of interesting conversation with one of my French friends. Our mood was nevertheless on an equal plane- quite upset, yet optimistic and full of energy. In between sharing our tastes for various forms of music, I curiously asked him, ''Hey, have you heard of Leonard Cohen? '' It should have been an expected NO as most of the people that I know of do not know Cohen. To my surprise, my friend obliviously replied, ''Oh yes! That Old guy with a guitar ? ''

Although, I missed the opportunity of explaining about Cohen to him, I was at ease because he already knew about the *magic*

When you have put your heart on sleeves for too long, or having a dead monotonous day; when the horizon breaks your soul and the spirit cry out for emancipation, when the faith floats on a thin ice and your pillow kisses your teary eyes; when you have wore too much of your body that walking a step more looks impossible; when you want to shout out but swallow the bitter pill for you know there is no body to hear your voice; when you have enough of hollowness inside for you have given too much out of wisdom and there is nothing you could do, but wait for the time to heal your wounds; when you feel this world has underrated your worth and all you have got is a burdened life to live; In order to heal and set yourself free-  you listen to Cohen's songs


When the joy of love and life comes together and hugs you tight, when you feel reconciled with everything around and that ''everything'' loves you back with all its might; when you dance solitary out of gratitude and love, or you let your lover kiss you too deep; when the flowers seem like a priceless jewel to you and the jewel appear like just another piece of materialistic temptation; when the despair of longing is washed away by the excitement of enjoying the wait; when you know love has knocked your door once again and you want to surrender even more of yourself this time; When there are no dark rooms left for regrets, and there are no fenced imaginations- Then you listen to Cohen's songs

I am a music lover and despite listening to every kind of music, depending on my mood, of course, I am more inclined towards a sane lyrics that is well beaded into the musical strings. Cohen's music is one such thing that I can go on talking about. His deep voice resonates a lot of emotions that sways perfectly along with the music. I love this man! This generation is a typical mainstream lover. They go by what's hyped and tend to tune their reflexes in accordance with the number of likes on a song. To me, it's different. A lyrics that kisses every senses,every bit of your emotions and that penetrates all into your soul.. that is my kind of music. So, I can dance to the choir of his beautiful compositions endlessly, enjoying every sheet and even the pauses between the notes.  Yes, I am one such crazy fan !

There's an attic where children are playing,
Where I've got to lie down with you soon,
In a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
In the mist of some sweet afternoon
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow
All your sheep and your lilies of snow
Take this waltz, take this waltz
With its ''I'll never forget you, you know!''