They shared their souls, but they didn't share names. She was addicted to old, old songs-the ones that hissed off tapes that her baba used to play-so Mann called her "Cassette." "You're playing in my head like a damn filmi hit," he would tease. "Don't you dare turn me down, Mann," would come her sullen reply.
They would speak till sunrise, he about the nights spent on the balcony with the moon cast in silver, she about the mornings heavy with dew and sleep. She would write poems on scraps of paper-chai-stained and crumpled; he would play his strings, chasing after sounds he considered to be hers. The distance was a monster, all hot and dusty between them, but they built a bridge in the form of long, late-night phone calls, whispered words caressing the listener on crackling and sizzling lines.
"Cassette," he would whisper into the receiver, "You're the beat I didn't know I was missing."
"Then hold on to me," she whispered, and he thought he felt her breath on the wire.
Love is a cunning thief, stealing into your bones
A whisper dance upon tremulous tones,
A light that resides on the frigthest dawn
A bond which remains when everything is lost.
"One of these nights, her voice trembled. Mann, what if it's a mirage? What if it disappears?" he stiffened, growling, "Close your eyes, Cassette. I'm right there-my hand on yours, my heart pounding beside you. This ain't no mirage." She obeyed and held her breath, as if he were there, as if the distance was just a bad dream.