Nightingales Don't Die

I never had an ear for music, my design always shuddered at lyrics; that is the way I am made, my ears and vocal chords fail to resonate. I have walked the dusty streets in the bustle of our cities, both small and big, and the unpopulated wilderness, watched sunset and sunrise from mountain tops, deserts and sea-sides. And wherever I went a nightingale always crooned. Didn't bother who that was or where she hid, for something in me melted in that melody, though unknown were its subtle metrics, frequency, waves, or the tongue whether it was Hindi, Marathi, some other language. And now people say the nightingale has flown away into the folds of time; how can that be? The croon I hear here, there everywhere, it can't leave me but only fill my inside with nectar, even when I lie dead on a mountainside listening to a songful passerine. For nightingales don't die and me too with Lata-ji the nightingale inside me crooning, crooning and crooning. Image courtesy: Getty Images