Kumar Gandharva

I heard you for the first time in Lalit Mahal

enthused by Bhakre who loved Kalidasa, with my daughter Anu;
as if it were preordained that day happened to be my birthday;
it felt as if I was taking birth again;
it felt as if the emerging waves of melody
originated even before your birth,
traces of those seated slowly disappeared.
That shameless ascetic Kabir ascended on you, and
loosening the bridle, began riding in perfect tune
and was lost in that rythmic joy.
In the middle of a song you suddenly
used to comment in a shrill voice;
as if to declare your whereabouts
as if to recall that you too are present in that music
as if to rejoice the fact that Kabir, though nomadic,
is on your back - you were smiling and also relishing in between.
The singing got over
And Bhakre gave you a Royal Salute.
When we, as well as you, realized that the ride was over
you spoke about this or that rather incoherently,
and clinked your glass with mine, with the smile of a gentleman.
Though I did lightly observe that
your round Gandharva face looked like that of a mature child
I was afraid standing close to you, who was touched by God.
Speaking with me in Kannada you became a person from Belagavi
in your style of talking, you disclosed your cast
grumbling that your rheumatic hands and legs are swollen
praising the weather in Mysore
and rather overly speaking high of my friend Ashok in Bhopal
you endeared yourself to us
in trying to feel that you are like everyone.
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And, you had conspired to have me put down

the spell you cast on me, like all this.
A whole variety of things sprung forth from your mouth
- the skies, the birds, the ethereal characters, the rivers
the forests, the hills, the clouds, the couples in love
the hurricanes, the forest fires, the furtive ticklers, the thrills
the women with eyes brimming with love, the bright Kartik lamps
the loud laughters of the renounced
the goddesses with plaits as dark as that of the nights
the laments of separation, the dimple-chined gods
and the flute-playing cowmen.
As if to forget all this, you lovingly got yourself served
- garlic chutney, jowar rotis, radishes, cabbages, cucumbers
chopped coriander and methi leaves - and recollecting your childhood
like a tired trader returning from the fatigues of his business and,
as if you never had anything to do with Kabir
you drank and ate with pleasure, mixing with rheumatism complaints.
I could imagine how much this distant and mad Kabir
would have mesmerized and taken over our son of Belagavi;
And, I marveled at this worldly wisdom of the Gandharva
who set off the mad Kabir to go after the innocent ones like us.
The chubby face of a child even though aged, swollen hands
uninhibited chatting while drinking, that humility, that pride
eyes half-asleep, the single-lunged shrill voice, the balding pate.
Thinking that the God stood
richly manifest like this,
I was immensely thrilled.