A cloud burst seems imminent.
The gypsy girl must find her feet again before she gets swept away. After months of holding the fort, of laughter and gaiety, of patting it all down and saying it doesn’t matter, she’s slowly beginning to sense feeling creep back into her toes.
Reawakened memory, like muscles can be painful.
And all the king’s men couldn’t put humpty back together again.
Only idiots try to repair eggshells. But some hearts are made of sterner stuff, innit?
So it goes.
How do you divorce your head from unreality?
Simple, just pick up your toes and walk.
Where will gypsy girl’s feet take her this time?
Hold my hand and lead the way Mama.
I’m back on the road
With a head-full of memories, frayed sleeves, and a worn out red skirt.
Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep. Or an imminent journey after four years of no vacation to a part of the world I’d best leave unexplored... Perhaps it’s because Ustad Bismillah Khan passed away, and ma cried for him today.
A shy young beautiful girl lost in unspoken dreams was stringing up orange-yellow marigolds at the main hall in BHU [Banaras Hindu University], in the sun-kissed city of Banaras when Ustad Bismillah Khan walked in and put his shehnai to his lips. That day he changed yet another life with his piercing soulful notes. Thirty-five years later, she still recounts how she hadn’t been able to stop her tears.
Something threatens to break.