As a chubby kid, the only physical activity I had was running back from the bus stop to my home. Guarded on both sides by long lean bamboos and muddy walls as high as me, the narrow path leads straight to our little home. It has been almost two years since we have had this roof over our head, but with no electricity. The old radio sat inside that glass shelf, amongst photo frames and medals and toys. My meagre pocket money wouldn’t allow me to run it on batteries.

That evening, the run ended at the door of my house as usual, but I couldn’t hear my gasping anymore because there was something else filling the air.

To this day, I want to believe it was magic that filled the space around me with music from the radio and light from the one bulb on the verandah.