You know you’re off to a party when you smell your mother’s perfume. It’s the special one, you know this because she wears it occasionally. It’s a heavenly smell but you don’t have the words to describe it. It’s just special mom smell for you.
The second indication that you’re off to a party is the pretty pink frock you’re allowed to choose from an array of frocks in whites, blues, reds and yellows. You’re in a pink phase – that’s what your father says but you don’t understand what that means. You just return his smile and shoo him away as you get dressed.
You comb your hair and then your mother ties them up in a fancy do with white and pink ribbons. You don’t know what constitutes beautiful but right now, looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel beautiful.
You drag your feet on the ground, your only connection to the world around you. You are admonished for the dragging feet but you’re six years old now and it’s too late to change such habits. You know your parents don’t really mean anything by it because they quickly give it up and leave you to your devices.
The grip you have on your father’s wrist tightens as soon as you exit the building. The outside world scares you a little and with one sense dimmed, you often feel like you’re walking on cotton. But your eyes sparkle and the smells of the night air interspersed with your parents’ perfumes calms you.
You sit in the car, careful not to crumple your frock. You observe your parents for a time as they talk. You try to follow their conversation but it’s too dark to read their lips and the movement of the car doesn’t help. You give it up, and stare out the window instead. You heave a sigh, disgruntled once again at your lack of contribution to the world in general.
You’re shaken out of your reverie by your father’s hand on your shoulder. He would have ruffled your hair but seeing the complicated hair arrangement, he refrains.
You walk into the party, a smile on your face. You know these people – they have been to your house and more or less are polite to you. Your favourite aunty gives you a big hug and tries to talk to you in whatever limited way she can. You love it.
But it lasts only fifteen minutes.
Soon, everyone has made their little groups: your father is standing with two uncles, a glass in his hand. You know when he catches your eye he will let you have a sip of that cool, spicy liquid that makes your nose feel funny. Your mother is chatting with a group of aunties, laughing and eating. You haven’t seen her smile these past three days. You’re glad she looks happy today.
You sit on your chair, a glass of Pepsi in your hands as you look at everyone. There are a few children who are running around but you don’t join them. You had tried before. They hadn’t been very nice. You decide you’d rather sit and get bored than be humiliated again.
A small commotion gets your attention. Your favourite aunty’s son is trying to set something up. He’s always been neutral towards you so you take a chance and approach his space. He smiles up at you and pats the chair next to where he’s fiddling with a box and a wire. You perch yourself there, happy to be even marginally included in an activity that has everyone in the room excited.
You know its excitement because you feel it too.
You’re not sure what’s happening until everyone in front of you starts to dance. Oh, you think. It’s music. You look around helplessly, wondering what to do now. You could always join your parents, copy everyone’s moves and pretend that yes of course you can hear what is happening. But it doesn’t appeal to you much.
But then something miraculous happens.
Your favourite aunty’s son takes your hand and places it on top of one of the speakers. You feel a puff of air emanating out of it and quickly snatch your hand back. He laughs, shakes his head and puts your hand back on the speaker, with his hand on top of yours.
Curiosity taking over the agitation, you try to understand what is happening.
Seeing your confused expression, he holds up a finger, fiddles with his phone, and changes something. Immediately the rhythm of the puffs of air from the speaker change. And then you understand. The puffs are mimicking the beats of the music. And if you try hard enough, you can match the puffs of air with how everyone in front of you is moving.
So that’s what it feels like to hear music, you think dreamily.
You look at your favourite aunty’s son, a bright smile on your face.
You don’t know this but he is a musician himself and that is exactly how he felt, dreamy and like the world had turned suddenly right, when he felt the first notes of music.
That was the day you first heard music.
Written as part of Blogchatter’s #MyFriendAlexa.
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tales of Suchita 
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