Ludovico Einaudi, Fly

This sounds like the queen’s necklace on a balmy Bombay night, like all of Delhi’s ruins compressed into three and a half minutes, like the mango tree I planted in Dehradun when I was in kindergarten, like Clarke Quay tinged with sorrow and hope, like the smell of the books that are my childhood, like long morning walks, like the joy of rain falling on my face, like dancing with mum, like having long conversations with dad, like gossamer sunshine on a December afternoon, like the shivering leaf I turned into the first time I kissed.

How does he do it?