In Memory of Begum Akhtar (d. 30 October 1974) 1 Your d**h in every paper, boxed in the black and white of photographs, obituaries, the sky warm, blue, ordinary, no hint of calamity, no room for sobs, even between the lines. I wish to talk of the end of the world. 2 Do your fingers still scale the hungry Bhairavi, or simply the muddy shroud? Ghazal, that d**h-sustaining widow, sobs in dingy archives, hooked to you. She wears her grief, a moon-soaked white, corners the sky into disbelief. Ghazal, that d**h-sustaining widow, You've finally polished catastrophe, the note you seasoned with decades of Ghalib, Mir, Faiz: I innovate on a note-less raga. 3 Exiling you to cold mud, your coffin, stupid and white, astounds by its ignorance. It wears its blank pride, defleshing the nomad's echo. I follow you to the earth's claw, shouldering time's shadow. This is history's bitter arrogance, this moment of the bone's freedom. 4 One cannot cross-examine the dead, but I've taken the circumstantial evidence, your records, pictures, tapes, and offered a careless testimony. I wish to summon you in defence, but the grave's damp and cold, now when Malhar longs to stitch the rain, wrap you in its notes: you elude completely. The rain doesn't speak, and life, once again, closes in, rea**erting this earth where the air meets in a season of grief. (for Saleem Kidwai)