Wordweavers India 

Faraway Music

Dwarkanathan Ravi


A yellow morning,
a green village.
A shower of rice
as a lady flanks the husk --
beating in a pattern,
she is in sync with the music.

I see no instruments around her;
no musicians, 
no festival troupes.
The occasional wind blowing
through the branches,
or the distant milk van
that honks periodically;

Perhaps it is the birds chirping
on the trees,
Or the branches gently swaying;

Perhaps it is the thudding sound
which she creates without drums,
Or the temple bell far away
in a corner of the village.
I sit and wonder.