Sister, Songs, and Phone Calls…

His earliest memories were those of sunlight piercing through the curtains, the rays falling straight on his eyes. Flooding his face with particles, that use this beam of light as a conduit, and are otherwise not evident, annoying and intense enough to make anyone pestilent at such an early hour. But he was not exactly the kind of person who’d get up from the bed just to draw the curtains. Sleep, for him, has always been the most deceptive state of mind and body. First, it is obstructed by the smallest of things, say light, or thirst, or a sensation that tells you that you need to pee, and second, it’ll deceive the sufferer into believing that he can fall asleep again without remedying what caused this hiatus. He didn’t know about others, but he never slept peacefully again unless the cause was remedied. Try as he might to prevent the light from falling on his face by using a pillow, the pillow would eventually fall off his face and he would soon return to his predicament. Why he didn’t switch the sides on the bed, which would have solved the problem, was a mystery. A habit. Perhaps, a ritual.

His fondest memories were on the similar lines and involved his sister who used to draw those curtains every morning religiously. She would tiptoe into the room, draw the curtains, thereby cutting the source of light, refill the glass of water by his bed, and then leave as quietly as she had come. Peacefully did he then sleep for another hour before joining her for the breakfast. He loved to sleep the most, and his sister just couldn’t let anything come in the way of what her brother loved. But things changed the moment he was up and was on the breakfast table, he’d ask her to switch the channel on the television and play songs from the ’90s, his sister would then ignore him like a busy shopkeeper ignores all the other voices than the one coming from a person who visibly holds the money in his hand. She’d then continue playing the songs from the recently released movies. The problem was not so much with the obscenity that these songs exhibited but what hurt and tormented him were their lyrics. They didn’t just make sense. Breakfast was then soon over these banters and bickering.

Now. He sits alone and thinks about those times. He has access to the television all by himself and he often ends up switching the channels between the ones featuring his sister’s songs and his own. The game soon saddens him. Happier times, he is convinced, can never be re-created. Not, at least, alone. Seldom does he muster up the courage to call his sister lest she takes his early morning calls as his being in some sort of crisis – a failed love, a torturous boss? But on days when it grows unbearable, and the world seems too heavy a burden, he dials her number and asks her if she was up already. The sound of the music and the lame lyrics from the receiver makes him smile. This is the best use of his phone for him, calls like these, that means the world. The inexplicable choice of songs on part of his sister. He asks her to switch the channel to one of his choices. Only this time she relents at once…

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