A girl has dreams. One of mine was a boyfriend who would sing for me. Sing of his love for me shamelessly, publicly. Write stories about the girl he thought I was and poems of the woman he saw. I did date Beq who wrote beautiful poetry and made the most stirring music but he scorned dedications and was content to remain poetically vague every time I dared hope I was the subject. Very disappointing the whole business was, but I tell myself, at least he was honest about it!
Vicky sang songs to me, for me. Songs from an era that nobody else I knew had ever been interested in. Songs that were light and lilting. He sent me lines from those songs as messages to my phone and quoted them in letters to me. When we set up home together he filled our little flat with jazz on Sunday mornings.
There are days when I feel a little sorry for myself because nobody did write me that epoch-making poem or world-changing song but then I remember all the songs my men did sing to me, from my father’s tuneless rhymes tothe innuendo-laden love song that my first love sang as he dared me to do something about the attraction sizzling between us; from the one song that Beq did finally admit he may have perhaps sung for me to the many that Vicky so happily hummed around me; from the rubbish Rahul and I make up to the ones that he and I dance to: and it’s hard not to feel the love.
I've been in Delhi for nearly a fortnight and Vicky's joining us in a few hours and excuse me while I feel all fluttery-happy. Isn't our man the lucky one!