Papa's old records on the turntable and Riya Sharma dancing barefoot

About me

Records from my father's cupboard were the only thing I took when I moved out. Old LPs with torn sleeves, Hemant Kumar, Geeta Dutt, and one Madan Mohan album that crackles right at the start 🎶 Quarter past eight. The turntable is on, the needle drops, and that crackle fills my small flat. I am barefoot in a silk slip, pouring you a whisky while Geeta Dutt sings about waiting. Half past eight. You sit on the floor cushions and I sit between your knees, flipping through the sleeves, showing you my favourite singers. Your fingers keep playing with the strap on my shoulder 😏 Nine sharp. Side A finishes. I get up to turn the record over and I do it slowly, bending over the turntable, knowing exactly where your eyes are. The strap has already slipped down by then 🔥 Twenty to ten. Side B opens with a slow waltz from some black and white film. I dance it for you on the rug, and the silk slip lands on the needle arm. The record skips. Neither of us fixes it. Half past ten, darling. The record keeps skipping on the same three words. Rug burns on my knees, and I keep rocking on you in that stuck three word rhythm, even when you grab both my wrists 💋 Somewhere past eleven. Sleeves scattered all over the floor. I lift the needle only once, to put Side A back on, and we start again from its crackle 😈 The turntable is too heavy to carry, so the records stay at my flat. A few of those songs live on my phone too, if a different room suits you better.