Ridges on the Drapes of Benarasi silk were radiating in the damp evening of my sorrow. If one might ask me the instance which warranted my sorrow, which I know that only one would be wondering about my sorrow and no one else. The grounds were due Moon's charade around the evening that it was the most dazzling and gorgeous, such a dreadful pretense was my motivation to be this sorrowful until I lifted my visage above and smelt jasmine and a mist of henna. Her eyes were framed with kajol, her eyes were smiling too.......I had become deaf and could not listen to her laughter which was innocently sinister. Looking back on my own stupidity I simply am tearing up but my eyes are high walls for my tears to climb and cross, I wish to store my tears by dropping my tear into an oyster. I wish to gift a string of pearls each with it's own hue of my emotion. That graceful divine and its charm. Oh Divine don't tease me with such a beauty I beg you. Mrudunga's leather hurts palm of hand without a layer of wheat flour, similarly my life is just hurtful without her. And the way Mrudunga is played for the love of God in Temple. The Divine plays with my life without her presence. Her Jhumkas are the chandeliers under which I want to sleep. Rings on her fingers clasp those palms so firmly that I can never feel metal when she would caress me. Bangles are my favourite on her wrists as I can always hear her wrists extending away or towards me. Her chaos is always structural in ways which defies my comprehension of humanity. As a new student of sitar and veena must sacrifice the softness of their fingertips for the perfection of a raag I must do the same with my quill. Because any tapestry of words I weave will always be less radiant to your smile. As an artist I will always be jealous of God.
[note]
{Hope she says yes, I would get write so much}
{Also, 24th April, Imagine reading this with Kishori Amonkar on spotify singing Raag gaud Malhar}
