The same sitarist’s tuning up his strings,
While the same drummer makes his tablas sing.
The cousins of those candles are alight;
The same stars shine –
It could be that same night.
It could be that same night when we first kissed.
When I first took your hand
And turned your wrist
And felt the beating pulse that told me how
Your heart was saying ‘yes’,
And now, it could be that same night,
But you’re not here.
And so I wish that everyone,
Would simply disappear.
(Sa Re Ga Ma are the first four notes of the Indian musical scale.)
Sa Re Ga Ma; From Ga to Ma
The rising fingers hesitate
Unsure of where the true notes found.
One fraction more, one fraction less
And it’s a mess;
And ugly and discordant sound
Suspended between love and hate.
Surely I know where your border lies,
That braided band of ice and fire.
I only cross it with my eyes,
I do not speak of my desire.
Ma Ga Re Sa
The note descends;
Rests for a while upon the evening air
If I could churn out poetry,
Like butter from a wooden vat,
Creamy and rich and full of fat.
I’m confident the world would see
Another Homer, born in me.
But sadly rhyme is not my lot.
Words limp from me, pathetically –
An Alexandrian library after the fire;
With all the rhymes a funeral pyre.
And me on top.