Gentle Master Kanghā!
Self-knottings perplex me;
a thousand demerits vex me!
Entrust me to your dauntlessly
unyielding, illusion-rending care!
Upwards pulls time’s discerning comb,
grinning death with pointed teeth.
Inexorable as tāla—crowning ornament
of kāla, rendered kalā to praise Akāl—
(he winks;) taking only whom he seeks,
Master Kanghā combs the kes of days—
disentangler of moribund yesterdays—
favoring discipline over grime-matted locks.
Never snipping, buzzing, tweezing, or razing,
knotty involutions he unravels with aplomb.
Beyond vanity, ennobling nature’s order,
Master Kanghā—sloth deplores him—in his
innermost heart loves song, where rāga
and tāla serve as courtiers to Sabad.
Rejoice! For by your grace, these
knotted strands of verse form teeth
of rhythm and sense, that in their
lilting innocence, may yet serve
Gentle Master Kanghā, to
comb my soul.
_____
Nihal Singh