To the one, I must not name,
I have lost count of the days we have spent apart; the last time I saw your face is, however, as vivid in my memories as yesterday. When you turned to take a last look at me in the crowd, I felt like you made a promise. You made a promise to belong to me as I did to you. Hence every day, I go to the meadows and play my flute. Remember our tune? The one that spoke of our feelings when we were shy to confess in words? I play it every day, hoping that the wind takes it to you. Or perhaps a bird perches on the tree's highest branches I sit under and learns the tune. It can then perhaps fly southward to you and sing to you, my ode of love.
You never returned but your memories did. The children have started gathering around me for lessons. I have hence found a purpose in my life, which I have dedicated to you. I have been teaching each one of them in the Citadel the tune. I hope someday they will grow up, travel across the seven rivers and play our tune of love. Then perhaps one day you can chance upon one of them, and you will know for sure that I belong to you, that I kept my promise.
I often take the lonely road beyond the meadows into the woods. I sit beside the lake in silence, where we once shared our deepest secrets. Do you remember that cave we found once when it rained? I went back there. I traced my fingers over the rock you sat on and, perhaps almost at the expense of sounding like a lunatic, spoke to you in whispers. Every night when I miss our secret escapades, I trace the curves of my body with the feather you tied at the end of the flute. They feel like your lingering fingers on my skin. They take me into a trance of ecstasy. I twirl in the darkness. I sing to the birds. I play the flute to the wind. People talk in whispers about my intentions and sanity. A poem or a tune keeps them occupied for a few days. Then the buzz starts again. Do I care what they think of me? Who separated us? Perhaps not. They would never understand us.
I went back to the cave again. This time, a desire to immortalise you gripped me. In your worship, I have found perfection. Maybe someday someone else will find a Deity in you. I traced your figure on one of the rocks. I gave you my flute. I knelt before you, staring at the figure for hours as though you would come alive and speak to me. Then the thunder rumbled, reminding me of my bitter reality. I walked back home, drenched in the blessing from Mother Nature. I thanked her as I do to the Lord Pashupatinath every day for yet another day when I could remember your face, your voice and your touch. I fear you are slipping from my memories every day. In my imagination, a bit of you is being replaced by what we could be. Am I losing you or finding myself? I can't tell. Your voice is in my head. Is it truly yours, or has it become mine?
I stare at my reflection in the water of the Sindhu every morning after I wake in tears, dreaming of you. Do I see me, or do I see you? I blush at my reflection. They say she has become a saint beyond worldly desires. Yet I hold on to the flute with my dear life. I hold on to hope.
Things have changed a lot since you left. There are the strangest animals being brought in to be tamed. The Arjans say we can travel across lands in a flash of lightning on them. I saw one on the street yesterday. For a moment, I wanted to learn riding, like all the men and women of the Citadel have been taking lessons. I hoped to escape with one and make it find you. But they said the training was exclusively for Merchants. I wish I had learnt the skills of pottery from you. My paintings don't have any value unless it's on your pots.
I have been slipping, or so they say: I am incurable of this dangerous disease that has gripped my soul. They have no name for it yet. But I do. I know. My only cure is the flute, and my eyes are on the horizon, looking for a face that's somewhere in the corner of this land, trying desperately to hear my tune.
Yours, from the Heart and Soul,
𑀢𑀭𑀦𑁆𑀕𑀯𑀢𑀺
The flute, cymbals, drums and trumpets were evident instruments for entertainment used by the Indus Valley people. Seals and wall paintings of Sumer and Mesopotamia reveal musicians from the Harappan civilisations who used to visit the courts of their kings. Music was hence a very popular part of the culture. According to Michael Danino, the author of The Lost River: On the trail of Saraswati, another interesting thing found in the IVC is cave paintings of animals, human figurines and daily activities. One of the most famous of these is a Krishna-like cowherd surrounded by his herd, playing the flute. It is an interesting scene to note, as perhaps a mere scene depicting a cowherd or evidence of the existence of the Lord. All is left to speculation as to who drew them and why.
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