The music stops

By Roopa Ramamoorthi

The music of your voice

Punctuated with pauses

Sometimes soft,

At other times repetitive reassuring

Me a child holding your hand

Going to see Ram Lila ballet at Cross Maidan

A postdoc in Seattle, writing to you

Telling you of Scottish men with bagpipes at the folk festival

Your voice on the telephone

Familiar, comforting

Guiding me along

The ocean green with algae at Gateway of India

Boatride to see Vikrant, grey air craft carrier

The boat rocking in the oily rainbow laced water

Me feeling seasick but an hour and back to shore

Safety of your voice next to mine

Seeking me to venture out

Knowing I can return

Crows in the sky

Five star Taj Mahal hotel with plush red cushions and

Golden sofas in which I loved to lounge

Browsing together at Nalanda the bookstore-only place

In the hotel where we could afford to buy anything

You and me seeing beggars at Gateway, hungry starving

Their chasing white foreigners for a few coins tossed their way

The music stops

Your voice no more heard

Death-the END