Diya

We would sit in the bell tower almost every day. It had become our own special space. Hidden away from the world, we sat and talked. Sometimes we sang. One day, we were holding hands and I was humming to him. When I stopped, he protested.

‘Don’t stop singing. I love to hear you.’

‘Sing along,’ I said. ‘I like it best when we both sing.’

‘But I am,’ he said. ‘My heart sings every time it sees you. It’s singing right this moment. Can’t you hear it?’

‘No,’ I said, laughing.

‘I bet I can make you hear it,’ he said with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

‘I’m not coming any closer.’

‘No, no. Stay where you are. But close your eyes. And listen.’

I closed my eyes, laughing, and waited. Then the most extraordinary sound filled the tiny space. It was a hum that grew and grew and vibrated through the air. I opened my eyes in surprise. Aman had knocked on the bell and was running a pencil around the rim. It made the bell hum. He began to hum along with it. Just a simple hum, but it was magical.

‘Do that again,’ I said, entranced. And he did. As the hum wove around us, he smiled at me and whispered a poem.

Who knows what the sound

of a heart song is?

Only your God

And your beloved.

He slid closer to me. And closer. The hum died away, and there was silence. We were less than an inch apart. We stayed that way, suspended in silence. Then I leaned forward and put my lips on his.

His lips were soft and warm and stroked gently along mine. Slowly, so slowly, he taught me to kiss, one gentle nuzzle at a time. Then we were really kissing. Deep and slow and long.