Deeba, did you know
I went to your room yesterday
looking for you?

The room was so dark
I thought you were sleeping.
I tiptoed,
whispered your name in a hanged man’s voice
– Deeba – Deeba – Deeba.
But you did not reply.
I drew the curtains
to catch your eyes in the light,
only to be disappointed.

You were not there
only everything else that was yours:
saris in the alna
lipstick, hair clips, hair brush
on the dressing table,
finger marks on the mirror,
shadowy, without intent,
tablas on the almira
tanpura and sitar leaning
on the side of your bed.

It looked as though
nothing visits your room
but the pungent dust
of the growing city
that is trying to claim
hold of your belongings.

An overpowering silence in the room,
so overpowering in fact that
I could hear your invisible hands
still tapping the tablas you revered,
so I picked up the tanpura
and pulled its string
to bring back
a little melody
to the room
that died with you.