The maestro was coming to town.

The whole town was agog with the excitement

of his coming.

He was supposed to play his sitar

for an exclusive audience.

A strategically placed sound-box

would quench the thirst of the townspeople.

The host was kind.

 *******

Night had settled in on the small town.

A small crowd of music lovers braved the winter chill

and waited with eager patience

outside the gates of the palatial residence

of the host.

Amongst them waited a small boy of fourteen.

 *******

The maestro started playing

and the eternal magic flowed all over them.

The feet of the enthralled boy carried him inside

past the unmindful guards.

He hid behind a pillar to listen and see.

 ************

The maestro played

and world was drenched

as music splashed all over them.

It felt as if the ethereal tune, in a torrent of joy

was cascading down the hillside

like a frenzied cataract.

He played and it seemed as if

thousands of yellow butterflies fluttered

to rise in unison over green meadows.

He played and in the azure sky

a pair of golden eagles wove amorous patterns of glory.

He played and fire-flies flitted about as in fairyland.

He played and dancing peacocks

put a rainbow to shame.

The sitar dictated even the uninitiated minds.

“Feel the joy,” it said,

and a deluge of ecstasy washed over all.

Then it sang, “Be sad.”

An overwhelming sadness drowned all.

The sitar spoke of amity, friendship,

and all tension was swept away.

Such an extravaganza,

the audience had never encountered before.

 ************

Then everything blurred for the boy.

A rough pair of hands

grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,

and threw him out on the road as a trespasser.

He lay there, prostrate, helpless, weeping.

The onlookers smirked.

The boy wept,

not for the pain. Not even for the bleeding knee.

He wept at his own humiliation and degradation,

never having experienced such outrage before.

A pall of sheer pain, born in music, from the sitar

floated over him, covering his shame,

as the street lamps became hazy

from the mist rolling in.

The maestro played about lost love.

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5 responses »

  1. Dear Sayantan,

    A lovely emotionally-narrative poem. Beautifully etched….

  2. Eva Bell says:

    Very touching poem!

  3. deepikaamit says:

    could feel the magic of that music in each line.

  4. Beyniaz says:

    Absolutely beautiful.

  5. gc1963 says:

    Perfect! Though I was waiting for the second chapter of your novel.

    Geetashree

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