TRANSFUSION

 ‘Now that your jet-lag is over,
 Let me take you out for a treat,’ she said. 
 We journeyed through dusty roads.
 Kolkata evening air smelled of spice.

 Inside a tin-roofed large hall
 We sat on a thin matt-carpet
 Spread over cool cement floor.
 She folded her legs under her
 Like a cat while I struggled.
 Soon the place was full, the audience
 Spilling outside.
 
 A sitar strung a few bars,
 Doogi Tabla played ‘Dhoom,’ ‘Dhoom,’
 ‘Tang,’ ‘Tang.’ A gentle hum-umbrella
 Unfurled above our heads.
 Her eyes wide as a butterfly in flight
 Narrowed on the Harmonium,
 Its polished brown wood glinted
 Under the stage light. They clapped.
 I straightened my neck and saw
 The Master, ‘Ostad’, arrive.
 Robed in silk he glowed.

 When the music began I hooked
 My eyes onto his glittering gold rings
 As he caressed the bellow and squeezed it.
 His other fingers danced
 An Indian Waltz on the keys.
 His voice weaved, slowly at first,
 Then with accelerating speed,
 A silk net of sound enmeshing 
 All of us. He teased the sitar,
 Dared the Tabla; they gave in like lovers.

 On our way home we walked hand in hand
 From the tram stop. She sang. I listened
 Flushed with the music-blood of my past.