The over eighty year old Lakshmi, whose dark face still plays
hide and seek in my dim memories, left her world of woes on Friday.
On the serenity of a night, she came to me
And recollected her active days of art.
It's almost a couple of years now.
With silence engulfing the handful of houses at Erwadi, Ramesh, as Aravan
Was marching towards the altar, where he would be beheaded the next morning.
Lakshmi, hooding her hair-dropped head with a scarf, kept telling me
How she discovered a dancer in her.
Her feeble voice entering my mobile phone.
I bade farewell to Hari and other friends, when the sky dawned with
The crimson blood of Aravan the next morning.
Within a week or so, I penned the memories of Lakshmi.
" The Empress of the Lore" with
Rare photographs, taken in costumes of dance
When Lakshmi was a young girl.
The sale of the newspaper with my article in " Expresso" was nothing unusual.
Beethoven on his piano. Hari calls me.
" Meenakshi sir, Lakshmi Ammal, you know ? the Empress of the Lore, is no more"
My wife, child and I were heading to Thanjavur on Jansahapthi Express.
My eyes welled up, I tell them her demise.
I sent Hari a message to accept my condolence.
Left as an unburnt part of Lakshmi's limbs
The 'sent' message in my mobile phone still smells of