anshulrawal

It was a dimly lit room in a small apartment where I once sat somewhere in Eastern Europe. My friend joined in, with her violin, which she had brought from her bedroom. She sat the case on her dining table and gently picked the violin out of it. She brought it to her chin and took a deep breath. It was hard to see her expression in that light. Melancholy was the first word that came to my mind, but who knows. All I can say is that there was a certain grace in her posture as she held the violin. It comes with age, I thought to myself. As she graced her violin, I can't recall what piece it was, but it carried both sorrow and joy. My gaze steered outside, a slow breeze was dancing the leaves under the moonlight. Perhaps it is to the violin or perhaps a song of their own. Who can say? The piece was over. She remained in her posture but was not looking for any gesture. I still couldn't see through her. I had given up at this point. She begins again, a new piece to repurpose the silent