Thumri

Thumri. 

I don’t know what the words mean.  I don’t know which instruments are strum-strumming in my ears. But I know that I hear her voice. It speaks to me, reaching in and pulling strings, like a wisp of strong smoke. And as I listen, I don’t envision dullpink pearls or a soft sparkling nose. Not at first. I see, instead, white mists. Flowing not around, but above me. And I watch as I listen, my unsteady breath occasionally adding to the blue translucence, my hands swaying with the notes.

The piece smells of strings. Of fresh-pestled kohl and of cinnamon. It tastes like old silver, like kahva and roasted unsalted nuts. And I see emerging from the smoke, as the vocals pick up, a woman. With a sharp nose. Her hair is damp, and her ears droop down slightly, heavy with gold. Her eyes are a clear, fleshy, mangoosteen white. Her ankles clin-clink with gungroos. Her paan-stained tongue flashes red, folded within a folded-pink mouth that  quivers and trembles in time with the music. Her hands are strong-like. Musksmelling. As she moves, you know that she knows the song as the song knows her, and that they come together, never removed.

Listen to Rasoolan Bai.

A.

“Wake up! The smudge of dawn

Low on the hills has shot

The bay with light. Don’t miss

These minutes. This is not

Pure altruism, though.

I grant I want to see

Your face against the dawn.

Wake up, therefore, for me. “

Vikram Seth

“Aubade”

The only time I really saw Seth, he looked worried. Worried and short. I like worried men. I read Seth because I like Seth. I like that his words flow like empurpled fruitoozes. That his poetry rhymes. And I begin with Seth because writing lives off of writing. Seth is also (weirdly) connected to the image of Paul Simon in my head. Writing also lives off music. And art and life. Okay.