Opening the book of memories, I’ve sat many a times, reading pages and excerpts from deep labyrinths of the mind infinite. Often times Gilmour has been a trigger behind it. Ah, for the love of food and Floyd. Without either, I shall perish. Music is the cheapest ticket for traveling in time, I’ve been transported to
The lull between the lyrics in Echoes would take me to the fifth floor of the final block of KREC, where sprawled on the floor I can clearly hear a room erupting in the laughter of half dazed half crazed individuals. The height of whose wit has by far been incomparable to many I’ve met in my travels. Maybe I’ve walked on the wrong roads. Again?
A jolt of vigor from the sounds of “papa kehtey hain” would take me to a small room at the home of my cousins in a sleepy town where we would spend afternoons listening to the soundtrack (on tape) in an imported JVC mini two-in-one, which uncle brought during his last trip to Dubai. A song from
Whatever be the season, whoever be the reason, each song holds a certain memory embedded in it. Like fortune cookies, the songs bears hidden meanings for everyone. Something from the past, perhaps something for the future.
