It’s raining out here and I think of you, your voice streaming in melodies. The pitter-patter of raindrops on our 1910 Dutch mansion reminds me of your music conglobated with medicine.
I find myself in depths of complete awe allowing me to feel your aura your closeness, the aroma still insists and persists in dreams and wakefulness.
Medicine took the priority and you loomed the highest in your subject at a faraway land.
In such days, when I try to recognize a singular melody, the raga brings me back to your home where we talked about everything other than medicine.
I travelled to many African countries since and each one showed the single jingle of anklets where sometimes and those times remained the same.
I remember you in Gwalior, regal in red silk, a garara emblazoned in gold, golden tear drops glistening from your hairdo, the gazelle form, coy and demure and then you suddenly smiled.
The worst hurt was when time suddenly stood still and I also decided to leave Gwalior.
But strangely I remember you so often. It has been nearly forty-five years since. Life and love still gather many trails. I do wish sometimes in the eye of an emerging storm, I can hold you the last time again. It’s raining and Paul Simon is blowing my mind.
