Thursday, 26 November 2015

The Old Man And His Songs

The old man sits by the road
A huge round turban like a crown
On his dome-shaped head
Layers of vibrant colours
A red and a gold robe
He adorns
Flowing like a crimson fall
Around his scrawny frame
The once-white-now-yellow yards 
Stretch from his waist to his bow legs 
Right till the ankles cling
The bow in his right hand is poised
Always to kiss the strings lightly 
Drawn on his left arm -"The Sarangi its called"
He utters and starts singing along
His sonorous lilt
Reaches up to the sky and talks to the 
Clouds dancing in sunshine
Radiant - fragrance of a gypsy land
Carries the breeze with every note
Crescendo....Diminuendo....wave after wave
Rise and fall in the resonance of his heart
He smiles as the song ends on a sweet echoing chord
The corner of his eyes crinkle
And the smile etched on his face illumine
The rugged contours, the stained yellow teeth
And the gaps in-between shimmer
The silver coins left by passers-by at his feet
In enrapture of something beyond
I ask him,"What song is it?
Where have you learnt?"
The hollows of his cheeks quiver in sheer glee
And his answer is as simple as he
"Life teaches many."
With that he arranges his bow 
Again to brush past the strings in a
soft caress
He smiles to his soul's content
Till the stars lit up the firmament
And the shadows extend deep and tall