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.
