The Sarangi's Wail

I was your brother

were we not brothers just yesterday?
did we not sip adrak chai at the break of a chilly dawn?
was it not me who paid your share too for the akhbar?

did you not confess your love for my sister just the other day?
was it so long ago that we sat together for a meal,
with the two of you exchanging covert covetous glances?

we were ten when your mother caressed my hair and kissed my forehead,
her eyes dark pools of compassion just as when she would look at her own
was it not she who taught me to sing khayal upon the rich tapestry of her sarangi?

you seem not yourself in these bloodsoaked clothes and enraged face
wielding bloodied instruments of hatred and incendiary words and deeds
you look at me through a new reckoning of distorted history and newfound anger

you escort me to the ravaged street where the noose of a burning rubber tyre awaits
I am too numb to protest, for the love in your eyes is replaced with a perverse lust
was it not yesterday that the raand you now wish to fuck was your mehbooba?


I was your lover

your coming was always like that of the first monsoon breeze of the season
was it not just last night that we had loved and lay exhausted in embrace?
did you not kiss the pearls of sweat on my breast and sigh everlasting love?

your mother gave me a richly embroidered chador the moment she heard of our love
your father was reluctant at first, only to be moved by your mother's love for me
my brother had been overjoyed, his voice seemed richer than the sarangi that evening

you who dignified my sense of self with a love that did not wish to possess me
you who were to be the father of my children and a companion by my side
how is it that your knuckles rap on my door this ugly night, each knock sounding a death knell?

what did it take for your love to be replaced by this hate and disgust?
because your God-man told you that I am a whoring seductress wishing to conquer you?
does your God fear me so much that he sent you to rape me tonight and burn down my house?


I am a sarangi

I wail tonight until my strings strain against their restraints!
tonight is not a night for music, but that is all I know
my wood resonates until each grain wishes to splinter the cries of maddened men

was it not just yesterday that we had all enjoyed a playful jugalbandi?
My mistress lies shivering in the dark corner, every breath an icy wish for death
did not the familiar voice that she had lovingly trained cry out at an unfamiliar pitch?

are these the same humans who created such music as would bring a piece of wood alive?
are these the same humans who were moved by my stirring melodies and sighed at every pause?
will the same bloodied hands pick up the tampura tomorrow, guttural staccato suddenly lyrical melody?