On Radios, love and midnight rants

I am a radio, when you touch me I play clearer. Human touch helps me transmit better.

I switched on the radio today. That is something I almost never do. Radio is almost a relic from my preteen years, mainly because I don’t listen to bollywood music, which is solely what is aired on Indian stations. Aside from shrill pop chart toppers I’d rather not hear that is.

Its 2 am at night, not too late for me, but its that time of the night when you realise exactly how lonely you are. And the thing about Bollywood numbers is that, it is almost always about love. And late at night, the songs are those which I would listen to and dedicate to my first preteen crushes. Bittersweet is an understatement. Its more bitter than bitterness; the sweetness I had felt back then.

Tere sang chain bhi mujhko, tere sang bekarari hain. Tere bin jee nahi lagta, tere bin jee nahi sakta” (Peace with you, is a sense of restlessness. I feel listless without you, I cannot live without you.)

The strangest thing about radios are that, they play that old song that meant so much to you once, and for a moment you are caught up in a bubble of reminiscence. Then the song is over and you cannot hit replay; it just goes on to playing an entirely different song. Just like that, the almost palpable memory is nothing more than something that happened awfully long ago.

It is a sadistic propaganda really, I have heard an odd eleven songs in the past hour or so, and each and everyone of them have been about being in love. The ideal happy love song. Sadistic why? Because only very sad lonely people would be listening to the radio at 2.21am.

And then they play things like “kho bhi do khud ko tum, raato main meri” ( give in and lose yourself in my nights) nicely done. A song that is so painfully romantic, a piece that was written as the background score for a sex-scene they chose to play instead of something sad and broken hearted.

Love.

Its a mystery to the greatest philosophers, and even if John Watson thinks its a mystery to Sherlock, he finds the chemical complexity of it extremely simple. Me, I am neither, only a sad lonely soul, better off than some, worse off than few. What do I know of love? Nothing really, in spite of the thousands of reference of the same I am almost choked with every second of the day.

Would you go on a date with me? I am ranting in the middle of the night, listening to the exact kind of music that I hate.

I wouldn’t go out with myself.

We blame the world for our shortcomings. A judgmental, unaccomplished naive recluse cannot have a prince charming.

That is the plain truth really. I pine for a Prince Charming, when I am no princess.

One bollywood song has it right though. “Har kisi ko nahi milta, yaha pyaar zindagi main.” ( Everyone here doesn’t get love in life.)

Dismal, at the very least.

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