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