As shadows of the night grew long,
We gathered round the radio new;
Our breaths held for the latest song,
And then your soulful notes came through! /1 #Latājī
The voice, O! lovely lilting voice!
We swayed our heads and closed our eyes;
The dulcet tones, what simple joys,
In that moment we touched the skies. /2
In some place else, a different time,
A time of youth, table for two;
The empty chair, a wistful rhyme,
And cold became the cup of brew. /3
"Sorry," she said, "O sorry, dear!"
A song then played like magic fair;
Your mellow voice for hearts to hear,
A poetic answer to my prayer! /4
The longing turned to longer sighs,
As days and nights the cassette rolled;
The dreams were mine in wistful eyes,
The voice was yours, a friend of old. /5
And then the day of life arrived,
Of song and dance and theft of shoes;
At times we laughed, at times we cried,
Your songs then turned from mirth to blues. /6
In ups and downs that life had thrown,
The tiffs amidst the daily chores;
And moments that we made our own,
Your voice remained a constant force. /7
A little one with lovely eyes,
Our life revolved around her deep;
Until we hummed your lullabies,
She stubbornly refused to sleep. /8
In festive nights and days we prayed,
And wafted high your voice refined;
A bhajan, kīrtan, ārtī, made
A prasād, so to speak, divine. /9
Up high in mountains snowy cold,
The bravery of our soldiers shone;
Your voice brought us those tales untold,
We prayed for daring souls unknown! /A
From gramophones to streaming apps,
Your voice remains the soul of time;
Years and decades will elapse,
Yet will remain, the voice sublime. /B
As shadows of the night grow long,
We gather round with headphones new;
Our breaths held for that charming song,
And then your soulful notes come through! /C//
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White Beard and Black Beard were seated in large, plush chairs in a dimly lit hall, their faces plastered with a smile as fake as a bride's when greeted by relatives from the other side, their eyes vacant and tired like a reserved passenger's whose seat is taken over by others.
"We have got sondesh for you both," said someone whose name they had forgotten.
White Beard waited for a message, and instead, all he got was a box of just desserts.
"Why is it so red?" asked Black Beard after opening it.
There was only a strained silence from the other side.
Black Beard ignored him anyway. "What have you got?" he asked someone who he had never met.
White Beard, fearing a sondesh repeat, turned his face to ignore the broken windows.
"Chak-hao kheer."
Black Beard opened it and said, "I thought it was made with black rice, not red."
"Just remove your Choos, Eeny," urged Moh, who had invited them.
"Where the hell are we?" yelled Eeny, sitting on a bench and looking around at the trees, the lushness of which was lost on her.
The trio, which had reduced from a quartet ever since Mynie had gone missing after she had married Parvez who called himself Paresh, was seated in what looked like an āṣhram canteen.
"We're in a good place," teased Moh. "Remove them."
"Those are not Choos," said Eeny. "Gucci."
Moh again urged both of them to remove their shoes. After they reluctantly did that, Moh took out a saffron pouch.
I don't understand the fetish for restaurants to play background music all the time. A quiet dinner is almost impossible anywhere. Mostly, it is some soft instrumental played so loudly that you feel like gulping down the hot soup would actually be a relief.
Yesterday, I was in an Italian restaurant. The background music was RD Burman. I told the staff to reduce the volume as I couldn't hear the conversation of my neighbour who was negotiating a December deal. "It's already low, Sir," he said. "Try our new garlic bread with paneer."
Imagine listening to "bīti nā bitāī rainā" in an Italian restaurant where you order any of the overpriced and overrated dishes.
"Yes, one salty and cheesy spaghetti aglio olio with one instrumental of Rafi and a soft remix of Kishore on the sides."