Our Song
The harmonium strikes the first notes of the morning.
Pathanay Khan's voice swells in my ears and flows into my mind.
Somewhere, your chest rises and falls in synch with the rhythm of my silent song.
Across this morning and across our cities that converge into one, an unsteady heartbeat sends a silent plea.

There are a hundred, a thousand lives racing alongside me, but my song calls out to the veins in which your life courses.
Millions of desires and wishes cloud the streets of our cities with their persistent babble.
But my melody seeks out the island of calm that has only your name hovering over it.

My song is not bound by time, distance or invisible lines.
My song is not bound by permissions, haphazard scrawls and unimportant pieces of paper.

My song cannot be written in a little book made of cloth and paper, too small to contain your life, and mine.
My song cannot be strung by hapless puppets and their puppeteers.
My song does not need to borrow speed from strands of metal or wings from steel birds.
My song cannot be hushed by murmurs of dissent.
My song does not need hesitant nods and reluctant approval.

All my song needs, is the prostrate conch shells of your ears.
For to have this melody come into being, take wing and soar, I need the curving paths that lead to your soul.

For, my song is our song.
For, my song is the blood that sings in your veins and the pulse that races through mine.
For my song cannot be heard without you.
For you cannot be sung without my song.

And to hear our song, you need ears that believe and hearts that listen.
Maybe, our song is your song.