Teri nazm se guzarte waqt khadsha rehta hai
Paanv rakh raha hoon jaise geele canvas par Imroz ke
Teri nazm se image ubharti hai
Brush se rang tapakne lagta hai
Woh apne kore canvas par nazme likhta hai
Tum apne kaagzon par nazme paint karti ho
(While passing through your poem, I fear/ that I’m stepping onto Imroz’s wet canvas/ An image emerges from your poem/ Colour drips off the brush/He writes a poem on his blank canvas/ You, on your paper, lend colours to poems).
~ Gulzar on Imroz & Amrita
Some pieces I read these past two days under the spell of a weird, new flu:
Ustad Rashid Khan, the ‘assurance for the future of Indian classical music’, dies at 55
‘As I grew, I realised music was safe and I could allow more of myself into it’: Anoushka Shankar
A Good First Marriage is Luck: Sheila Heti in conversation with Phyllis Rose
Five O’Clock Somewhere an essay by Gary Indiana
Some music I allowed myself to soak into as the minutes collapsed into one another: