In that seventh floor Bombay flat, with the fishing docks below us, my favourite room was the bathroom. Here, from your shower into my window or maybe through the pipes, your song slipped in like a letter.
At first, I had hated this damp place with feathers in the grill. But after you, I started to hear, to hear the blue pigeons humming and assenting to love and when you wound and unwound that one line until it could catch even lost kites, I saw them push their children off a ledge to find flight.
At first, I had hated that chip in the sink but on so many nights after, I filled it to the brim, and splashed your voice on my face.
For days, my lips could taste tunes in the salt of the island air.
And now, whenever that line arrives around my ears I hear the drumbeats of water and I feel like drawing your name again on wet glass.
Suchi Govindarajan is a writer and photographer based in Bangalore, India. She is the author of two picture-books for children. Her work has also appeared in many Indian newspapers and magazines. Poetry is her first love, and fiction is her newest. Twitter & Instagram: @suchiswriting.