That evening at Anita's house,
Birju Maharaj spoke to us all,
of waves returning to shore,
of leaves falling from trees,
of a bird fluttering to feed,
the young ones in its nest,
of little beaks opening in time,
with the mother bird's return,
of the ring of a telephone,
before one says “Hello!”,
of remembering numbers,
by the way they fall from lips,
of the rhythm of lashing rain,
cascading over hair and face,
of the drama in a thunder storm,
the asking of an attending maid,
without ambiguity, in a hotel room,
using a body, speaking just dance,
for a towel to use after the bath,
of baby clothes in a foreign land,
bought without words, or, the baby,
asking for flour, to paste upon skins
of drums, in quest of vibrant sounds,
of erring into the basement floor,
lost, in an elevator, where numbers
are written in a foreign tongue,
of three friends walking together,
of the elephant's gait, swinging ears,
the attitude of its proud mahout,
of a snake's conflict with a mongoose,
of Radha, and of Krishna with his flute,
of transitions, and of transience,
of a learning leaving death irrelevant,
of the impenetrable shrouded depths,
beyond the gates of delirious dance,
of the rhythm of lines and of curves,
in all that we've built, new and old.
Of all this and more, Maharaj spoke,
charming us all, on a timeless night!