I call her Komal Gandhar
in my mind.
She would sit stunned if she learned about it,
“What does it mean?” she’d ask smilingly
That it is unfathomable is its most certain meaning.
The world is about work and vocation,
about different shades of good and bad—
Things that connect her to others.
I watch, sitting by her side
how she infuses her surroundings with a peculiar melody.
She knows not her own self.
At the spot where her Beloved’s altar is placed
an agony-incense burns by His feet.
From there, a shadow of smoke engulfs the eyes,
like clouds enveloping the moon—
masking the smile a little.
Her voice carries a fading strain of melancholy.
She is unaware that it’s the same strain that
binds the strings of her life’s tanpura.
The notes of Bhairavi permeate all her
words and actions.
I cannot conclude why.
That’s the reason I call her Komal Gandhar—
It is hard to comprehend why
teardrops glide into the heart
when she lifts her eyes.