Loss is when Balabhaskar died,
When the mourn of the violin
Seemed to keep flowing into an everlasting note.
How can those strings strike the chord of
Such painful music; the music of a violin being melancholic by nature itself-
Those strings now wept as they have never wept before.
To you Tejaswini, he comes
For as they rightly say,
No father ever leaves his child alone.
You are immortalized, O maestro,
By your transcendental music
Whether it be Surya or Confusion,
By your humility, your charming youth
Thy image with the violin at thy shoulders,
Like the pied piper and his pipe
Holds us in that melancholic trance
Forever.
