LETTER TO SHRI BALUJI SHRIVASTAV, by Suniti Namjoshi
By Suniti Namjoshi
When I came to the West I could see all right,
but what I saw were the wrong colours,
the wrong shapes: the leaves, for instance,
were quite unlike the leaves in my dreams.
Not that my dreams were paradisial.
Maternal monsters rose to greet me,
but the trees in those dreams, were benevolent,
and known to me.
And if the leaves whispered, at least I understood
their varied speech.
For you, perhaps, it was different.
You must have heard the sounds
of people talking their English English,
and of motor cars revving
without honking their horns
and without the accompaniment
of bullock carts clacking, cyclists toppling,
rikshas swerving, stray dogs yelping…
And at night when you heard a leaking tap,
did it keep you awake like a metronome?
Or did you sleep and dream of Lataji singing
or even Subbalakshmi and a tabbalji playing
faster and faster?
Was the air laden with mogra and jasmine?
Here, in England,
I play Bach or Beethoven,
and I listen carefully - as well as I can.
I seldom or never play Indian music,
neither filmie, nor classical.
The sounds don’t fit,
the life doesn’t fit;
and I become aware of distances
that are difficult still.
But you - they say- have made a local music;
so even in this awkward
and unlikely climate
it may be possible to listen again,
and not grieve.
