Midnight Symphony

I grew up with Kishore Kumar’s songs filling our home, my father dancing to Rajesh Khanna’s greatest hits like it was a ritual. On quiet, warm nights—after I’d finished my homework—I’d curl up with a glass of Rooh Afza and watch my dad gently take my mom’s hand. He’d twirl her slowly and sing “Yeh Shaam Mastani…” as if the world had paused just for them.

Even now, after more than 30 years, those moments feel as vivid and close as if they happened last night.

During a recent trip home, my husband and I decided to turn on the karaoke and sing our hearts out. A few glasses of wine in, I found myself, that little girl again—sitting on the sofa, watching my dad dance with my mom. This time, “Hume Tumse Pyaar Kitna…” played softly in the background. Just like that, time folded in on itself.

Their home has always been my sanctuary. For twenty years, I lived under that roof, growing, dreaming, becoming myself. Then I left to build a life of my own. But no matter where I went, no matter how old I grew, I knew I could always run back to them and everything would feel right again. Those songs, always playing quietly in the background, became my lullabies. Gentle reminders of a love that never wavered.

In 2020, we moved back to the city where my parents lived, finding a house just five minutes away. Evening visits to their home, quickly became my favorite part of the day. That’s when I noticed something new—a quiet, beautiful habit.

After dinner, my dad would take a walk and then sit alone on a bench in the park. No phone, no small talk. Neighbors passed by, he nodded politely but never joined their conversations. One evening, I decided to join him.

We walked together for a while, then he settled onto his usual bench. I kept walking, just short of my daily step goal, circling around him. Close enough to watch, far enough to let him be.

And then I saw him.

Sitting there, utterly at peace, smiling softly to himself. His eyes bright and calm, like he was sharing a private joke with the night. I had always thought he was meditating or praying in those moments. But what I saw was something else, lighter, joyful.

When he was ready to leave, I walked with him home. I couldn’t help but ask, “Dad, I saw you smiling. You weren’t on your phone or talking to anyone, but you looked so happy. What were you thinking about?”

He looked at me with that familiar, gentle kindness and said, “Have you ever listened to how the night speaks? There’s a whole symphony out here. Dogs barking in the distance, some nights cheerful, other nights like they’re arguing. Tiny insects you can’t even see, buzzing like they are participating in their own little talk shows. It’s electric. Then laughter floats on the breeze—women chatting, kids cycling, cars rushing by. It’s all music. Beautiful chaos that turns into a midnight melody. Every night a new tune, a new rhythm. It makes the silence feel alive. It makes me feel alive.”

I walked beside him, quiet, letting his words settle inside me.

Music that reminds you where you came from. Music that brings you home.