He heaved a deep sigh; disappointed with himself, he moved towards the balcony of his bungalow, which brought the large courtyard in his view. The bungalow was quite obsolete, giving off as it did the hint of an older style of architecture. The bungalow had been built by his grandfather 70 years ago, and the interior design deeply reflected the man’s love for Eastern culture. The rooms were decorated with exotic artworks, including Bhutanese thangkas, colourful folk art, images of Padmasambhava, and exquisite paintings of the Buddha. There were also goddesses carved in wood there, which lent a divine aura to the bungalow. The serene atmosphere of the place was a haven for creative minds.

He used to make his way here from his rented apartment whenever he had the urge to explore the vastness of the human mind. The bungalow, located on the outskirts of the town and with were very few houses nearby, was being eyed by investors. But riches don’t hold any value when memories, ancestral creeds and sentiments are involved. He wouldn’t sell his grandfather’s bungalow, even though it had aged much in the last few years for lack of proper maintenance. In order to maintain this shelter, he had no other alternative but to earn for himself, for he knew that the property would never have the same grandeur if it belonged to someone unknown.

As the last rays of the sun crafted maroon shapes on the walls of his room, he decided to go for a short evening walk. The air was chilly, hinting at the approaching winter. As he put on his overcoat, his phone buzzed. He answered it.

“I am on my way and I’ll reach there anytime soon. I’ve brought dinner too, so you don’t need to worry about spending a

terrible time in the kitchen. I love you,” the voice at the other end informed him.

“I love you too. So there goes my evening stroll. Pity me,” he replied in a dramatic tone, with a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Yes. Stay indoors. It’s my order,” she replied jovially.

“Yes, Boss.”

After the call, he decided to check out a few books in the library, located in the basement, before she arrived. As he walked briskly down the stairs, he could hear the sound of his movement reverberating in the empty house.

It was a very large library, with thousands of books on the shelves, covered by dust. He switched on the light and browsed the shelves. His grandfather had been a charismatic man who had a deep love for ancient culture, music and books. The shelves were divided clearly according to the type of books they contained. His grandfather had managed to collect some exceptional books with detailed information about the musical instruments used by the Egyptians in the past, the former forms of music, the development of music in different civilizations in the 12th century and so on. After browsing for a while, he decided to go through a book titled Music and its Virginity. The title was striking yet the connection seemed harmonious in some way.

Pulling up a chair chair near a shelf, he placed the book on the table and took in a deep breath. He turned on the lamp and opened the book to see a piece of paper stuck on its first page. Scribbled on it was the following:

During the slum hours, walking in the dark alleys, the light left no traces and the darkness baptised me. I dragged my foot, and with a force, which emerged as I soaked in all the energy from my cells, my limp transformed into a swift stride. It wasn’t painful—or at least I pretended it wasn’t. I had seen dogs, wild beasts and even hermits whimpering in the silent breeze. They had certainly convinced me that self-destruction and self-love were absolute. My inscrutable condition made the tree twist with hatred. But I didn’t care.

I knew about them.

They didn’t fear Gods. They didn’t fear evil. Their voice was an echo from somewhere between the hills—from somewhere, they connected this delusional world to the real world, where deer chase tigers, where hermits jump down cliffs to find nirvana, where crows boast of their beauty to the doves, and where cannibals are worshipped as intellectuals. They were the pure ones, the christened ones.

Regret is the death of life. Assurance is sympathy. Promises bring destruction. Fear is dangerous. Fearless creatures they were. Ironically, they were pleasant.

And she was one of them. My love. My life.

I was very young when I saw her first. It was the first time I had felt her so close to me.

“You are a mystery, my beloved. You are a scripture of history, where I can’t enter. When I couldn’t figure you out, I raved, I swore—some made a mockery of my helplessness while some took advantage. I was playing dirty too, but the dark had disguised itself into so many forms I couldn’t recognise things. But the best part is I met you.” I had said at the time.

But now, when I can understand her, comprehend her every action—I can’t help but be seduced by her. She tempts me; she arouses the predator in me—wild and passionate as it should be.

She’s music and the words embroidered in it. She’s that voice, powerful and life-altering. I love her. I really do. And nothing, not even the helplessness, not even the uncertainness of  life, not even the failures, not even the world’s disappointments—nothing, I say nothing, can make me stop loving her. She’s my life; a virgin—youthful and blossomed, seducing me. My only purpose in life is to feel her warmth and explore her beauty.

And thus I say it today-

May our love prevail, with all the colours of the sky, fire, wind and water.

 Consumed by the words on that piece of paper, he could feel something changing inside him. Somehow, he felt connected to the words—with all the sentiments impeccably inscribed by the author. He couldn’t particularly think of anyone who could have written this. But then, dwelling on that question seemed insignificant.

A loud rapping on the door brought him back to this reality. Putting the book on the table, he walked up the stairs leading to the hall from the basement. Walking towards the door, he smiled because he knew who the guest would be. As he opened the door, he was embraced by a petite feminine body. He relished that moment and held her even more tightly in his arms.

 Lavender. The scent of her body engulfed his senses and all he wanted to do was to kiss her. Passionately.

“God, one day, you’ll make me so weak, I swear”, he said, as she picked up the bags from the floor.

“Don’t try to flatter me,” she smiled.

“Tch, you’re so ungrateful, sweetheart,” he said dramatically. Moving towards the divan, he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek and added, “You inspire me every time, love.”

Her lips curved into a slight smile. “And where’s this

coming from?”

“Just…” he replied.

As the night grew, the two of them formed a silhouette on the verandah against the dark sky. They were consumed in one another—complete.

As he watched her looking at the stars, his mind wandered off to the note he had read in the evening before. In that instant, he made a promise. He would never let his love fade. Dejection, glumness, hopelessness were part of life but defeating them would bring him meaning, joy. By the time dawn broke, he knew the meaning of his subsistence.

May our love prevail, with all the colours of the sky, fire, wind and water. He smiled.