This morning was one of three most hungover mornings this year. I didn’t have a headache, but there existed a lag between what I wanted to do and what I was able. Commiserations were in order as I unlocked my phone and out of some muted heavenly intervention navigated straight to YouTube. First I listened to the middling Kesariya, for about a couple of times, unmoved, unimpressed dallied on to Sid Sriram’s rendition of Kumkumala. Within five consecutive listenings, I knew I’d arrived at the perfect song.

I didn’t miss a beat, put the song on repeat on apple music, amped up the volume on the airpods and nestled back in bed. My head was not throbbing, as is was wont to in this situation, but there was a lurch somewhere there. It felt mushy. My eyes ached. The song did its work, soothing unknown parts within. Correcting, repairing and fixing loose bolts and stray nuts. I felt that I was becoming whole one beat at a time. In Kumkumala Sriram’s voice mirrors the sonorous melancholy of a heavily rained in evening, nurturing my battered spirit, lending it a dewy, moisturised sheen of adoration.