I hear the weeping of the ageing moon
Amidst the dark tranquility of its eternal gloom

I hear the weeping of the sapphire lake
The beauty it once held, one could never replicate

I hear the weeping of the ancient trees
Mourning the evil fate of its fallen leaves

I hear the weeping of the wise old birds
The loss of their little ones needs no words

Weighed down by a plague of sorrow
I cover my face with my hands
Fighting despair, seeking peace
In search of God who would end this disease

And then I hear it…..
A soft, melodic sound
From the gentle release of a string
Like the first flapping of a little bird’s wings
Like the soothing sound of the noble winds

And as I peep through the spaces
Between the thick and still convoy of leaves
I find an old man
Eyes closed, radiating peace,
With an instrument in his hand

Through his closed eyes I saw years of sorrow
But in his heart I saw that
He hoped for a better tomorrow
Each of the wrinkled skin on his forehead
Had a soul-stirring story which remained unsaid

As he puts his fingers over the silver strings
The instrument shudders, as if blessed with new life
And then he plays a soft note…..

The moon gives way for a new break of dawn
The trees stop weeping and listen intently
The birds forget their loss for a moment
The lake twinkles with a faint light

And then he starts playing his instrument

Immersing myself with the melody
I feel a strange kind of elevation
Like a baby holding your finger
Like napping on your mother’s lap
Like a hug from a long-lost friend
Like the joy of knowing
All these feelings would never end

The divine melody of the Raaga stirs life into everything
The sun smiles brightly at the new turn of events
The trees stand tall once again
The birds come back to their nests
And the lake gleams with a sapphire light

Then, slowly, he stops playing

I walk towards him as he opens his eyes
Eyes which shone with mysticism
Seeking his blessing, I fall down at his feet
Hoping he would pass on his wisdom

My dead heart rejuvenated,
My shaken faith resuscitated,
I gradually lift myself up, after a while
From a land that was now fertile
All patched, which was torn
But the old man was gone.