Delhi Diary- Terrace Throwback

Still when I lean with my back against the wall that is warm from a long days‘ heat I think of the so similar and so far away terrace wall I left so many years ago. I spent half of my days on this terrace, that had the same white tiles as the terrace I am sitting on right now. The plants were different, and most meagre, beside of the hibiscus tree someone left on the terrace for my mother and I moved in. So many afternoons and evenings I spent there, reading, thinking, dreaming, and singing. It was on this very diary when I fell in love with Mr Darcy or began to admire the cool and sensitive prose of Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Many nights I spent on the terrace listening to music from the old record player I bought on a flea-market from my first self- earned money. Schoenberg’s Moses and Aron swirled through the night and I discovered Brahms, which I still only randomly confess. But still today my heart beats faster when only hearing a fee first tones of his music. When I closed my eyes I could hear voices of the domino players downstairs sitting up late at night, talking and gambling and drinking tea. Here, I look down on a busy street. Moto-Rickshaws are waiting for customers, truck horns and cows desperately try to find some green and not only squeezed plastic bottles. But when leaning backwards and listening closely I hear the muezzin from a mosque nearby calling the assembly for prayer. And still I can’t help it to think back at the times, where we both sat leaning against the very wall, waiting for the first muezzin to begin and to call out the names of the mosques joining the chorus. You always let me win and always pretended this were not the case. And I was tucked up under your arms and maybe as safe as never before and never after. This terrace was our secret garden and how young were we and how naive to think this garden would last and carry us safely away. Still today, so many years after our backs became inseparable with the wall I wish I could just for another late evening sit with you, stroking across your knees and listening to your voice, telling me silly, sweet things, keeping us both awake all night. Here, I do not even know the name of the mosque, no one sits next to me and I drop my head down on my knees and call your name as if it would be able to reach you through all this darkness that came and took you away.

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