To my most favorite Stranger.

As I sat down at my desk penning down my thoughts into words straight into the freshly purchased pile of letters, a voice stunned me. A voice of a stranger. The Autoplay option on YouTube played its trick. After a series of musical brilliance by my favorites, it was the turn of the stranger. A familiar song, a musical brilliance by a maestro now sung by a completely unknown person, atleast to me.

Word after word accompanied by the little piano sound as though royalty playing with marbles, stunned me.
I began to write about it in the letter drifting off from the topic of discussion. Now that it made me write, don't you realize how beautiful it must have been? A sweet distraction. As I write, I'm listening to the same for the umpteenth time and it amazes me how each time I discover something anew.

The voice of a stranger.
The voice left me with a heart-warming smile. A strange tint of peace crept into me. A beautiful calmness. The only other brilliant sound being the periodic notes of the piano. As if creating an atmosphere for me to cherish the calmness. How can a voice you've never heard of before, seem so familiar? Amazing contradictions was what I was left with.

The voice. The voice. The voice.
The singing wasn't perfect. It was not something you could sit down at a desk and shoot criticism towards. Rather, it had mispronounced words. It had a few incorrect phrases here and there. The breath caught itself time and again as the voice was lost in the music. The sound of the breath  was as though it were to say, look, look how alive I am.The voice wasn't in a hurry. It went on, conquering the heart with each moment. It went on as quiescently as it could. At the end of each sentence, one could listen to the quiver in the voice.  It was magic. Magic in its truest sense. I smiled interminably. I am, still. I turned into a little kid. Those days when you recite the poems with actions? Likewise, I ended up with a plethora of expressions on my face pertaining to each sentence of the song that the voice owned.

The best gift that one can be presented with, is a voice. Any kind of voice. The temperamental, the huskier, the sweet one, the sour-throat one, the one that struggles through the lump in the throat due to sadness, the one out of breath due to stomach-aching happiness. And this voice, it left me calm. It shut me up and asked me to do nothing but listen to it, without murmuring the song or singing along. It asked me to listen to it in the most beautiful way.

I have a way with strangers with absolutely no idea why or how. I guess it's better to stick with the mystery and embrace the surreal beauty of it. The voice had somehow found its way to me, arriving completely unannounced yet bringing a truck load of happiness. I needed to thank that voice. Gratitude boss, gratitude.
And thus, I found this person and thanked them for the favor.

I personally love it when a stranger loves my works and makes it a point to convey the same to me. It makes my day. Friends and family will always support you and encourage you. But to be loved by a stranger for your work, art or music  is what gives you an insight into what you are truly upto.

To the person to whom the spectacularly splendid voice belongs to, you're my most favorite stranger.
Happy Singing! :)

Her.

She was taken to a place.
Never did she belong there.
Outgrowing her comforts was what she wanted.
Amidst the hectic music and cocktail talk,
She could hear the tick of the clock.
Caustic, screeching, frightening;
Yet comforting her existence.

She wanted to be a sailor, an artist,
An enigmatic personality.
Mingling with crews, giggling with young souls.
She toiled across the years.
Smiling, healing, getting stronger.
Also, she drowned deep.
A mirrored pool of thought.

Paradigm was her mind.
All the zest in the world hid in her.
But her pretty heart,
Was bruised, tormented and hurt.
But she was sure of one thing;
it would soon be over.
The waves would wash away the despair.

Hence, she went on.
Conquering her little endeavors.
Embracing what the world wished for.
Excelling in her own beautiful ways.
To the world, she was a happy wonder.
Deep down, the scar still remained.

 © Deekshita Srinivas. 
     16th June, 2015. 

Two hours a week!

Two hours a week.
What does that emphasize in your opinion? Two hours a week of what? If you have a humorously dirty mind, your mind might wander off to, well, you know what. If you're an amazingly over-romantic person, your mind might develop images of meeting a certain person two hours a week. If you're something other than the above two, you're probably wanting to stop reading the post since I didn't articulate much on your categorization. But, hold on.

Those two hours in a week. They add a new dimension to my personality, to my happiness, to my never-ending rants about the little beautiful moments and in turn, to my life. At times, you have a brilliant idea that sprang up your mind when you were supposedly staring at the wall and all you have to do, is go for it! But viola! Life won't let you escape that quick, without a series of if(s) and but(s), followed by some hurtful self-questioning, accompanied by overly negative views from fellow, homo sapiens and a plethora of hindrances.
After processing through the following, and finally making up my mind, since that was the only escape, I embraced what lay in my mind. And? The result? What do you think happened? Too many questions, is it? Just creating an atmosphere of mammoth consequence, my darling.

I was amazed at what I found. Sometimes, wait, I have no clue why the word 'sometimes' pops in from nowhere when one needs to describe a beautiful incident, however, let's get back. Sometimes, or must I say, more often than not, what we admire and crave for, is way beautiful than what we imagined or assumed it to be. Maybe that is why it is worth all the series of if(s) and but(s), followed by some hurtful self-questioning, accompanied by overly negative views from fellow, homo sapiens and a plethora of hindrances. It's worth it. Sure shot worth it. If it were easier, it would lose it's preciousness. Like a 5 year old who loses interest in his toys in no time since he possess them easily, just a cry away. But a different 5 year old who has only witnessed kids of his age playing with those toys, to him, even a give-away is as precious as the mid-summer rains.

I could interact with homo sapiens of all age-groups. I could laugh at something as silly as a broken teeth with a fourth grader to discuss about how the majority of the population merely survives rather than living their life with someone twice my age or simply listen to the eldest person in the room talk about the changing times with a reminiscence of nostalgia in her eyes as she shifted from one topic to another.
I could notice how the little kid wants to grow up so quick and do the chores that elders do, how he would join in a conversation completely off his level of debate and pour in some amazing catchy-dialogues, probably from a movie he last watched. Likewise, how the beautiful middle-aged woman stole a candy from a little boy and tease him about the same, how a little girl she had turned into in seconds with a heart warming smile.

It's just a matter of seconds before strangers turn into people one absolutely admires.
One smile. One kind gesture. One genuine compliment.
That's all that separates the transition between a stranger to a friend.

Accompanied by some brilliant music. This music was a different kind of music. Not the final, near-perfect music, but the learning-off beat-screeching like a dying cat-kind of music. And no, it wasn't noise. It was music. It is music. People finding their way from the dying cat kind of music to the harmonious kind of music. Improvising, trying, failing, trying again, grabbing some inspiration from the person who could now produce harmonious music, originating from the dying cat kind of music.

Those two beautiful hours a week.
Those two beautiful hours of Violin class.  :)

 © Deekshita Srinivas. 2nd June, 2015.