A silent musing for the musical genius, Mandolin U Srinivas.

I vividly remember that day. Three years ago. Friday the 19th.

I have experienced grief many a time in life. The void created by those who had left me for good, be it someone who loved me like none other or an uncle from whom, I’m told, I inherited the fanaticism towards classical music, is conspicuous only when I think of them. And there are those few whom I had met only in my head. From Steve Jobs to MS Amma, not a single day would pass without a thought about them.

People we love the most, though they live with us only virtually in our hearts, become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories meet experiences. On the lines of past racing and bumping into the future. And when they leave us, we lose a part of ourselves. We must pick up to relive in a new world without the departed soul.

As I stare into a wall that appears fuzzy to the inside eye, somewhere on the visible spectrum between bright white to near black, I have not yet negotiated terms with reality. Grey matter, if I may say so. Today, even three years later, the fact that you’re no more and may never come back isn’t able to help much.

The burden of the heart is too much to handle. Pitch dark around me. I walk into a shower, overstaying under it. I know something is off: naked; heart: completely empty; and mind: uncomfortably numb. But I don’t shiver even after ten minutes.

Even then, would you want to know I experience your music twice a moment, that’s each time I breathe? And in the gap, you cross — the border of — my mind and enter the heart, and then transcend it. As quick as an electric pulse on a Mandolin. And then… I can’t say.

You! Mandolin Srinivas: Would consider to comeback, if I traded my life for yours?

Mandolin U Srinivas, would you at least play Nagumomu Ganaleni for one last time, before you could — or even choose not to — say anything else?