“Koi Jo Mila” by Shankar Mahadevan

There is this one piece that I am stuck on and have been stuck on for awhile now. The other day, I heard this song and there is a part that really describes the picture I want to portray in my piece. Just thought I’d share.


Badal main ik chaand chhupa hai
Aur jhaank raha hai jaise raat ke parde main
Ek savera hai roshan roshan aakhon ke
Sapnon ka saagar jismain prem sitaron ki chaadar
Jaise jhalak rahi hai
Lahron lahron baat kare to jaise moti barse
Jaise kahin chandi ki payal goonjey
Jaise kahin sheeshe main jaam girey
Aur chhann se tootey jaise koi chhip ke sitaar bajaye
Jaise koi chaandni raat main gaye
Jaise koi hole se paas bulaye


Like a moon hidden in a cloud
And the moonlight emerging
Like luminescent dawn from the shade of night:
An ocean of dreams in her eyes, love overflowing in waves,
Like sheet of stars,
Speaking words like showers of pearls,
Like somewhere the moon’s anklets jingle,
Like a tinkling glass goblet,
Or the playing of the sitar and flute,
Like singing in a moonlit night,
Like the soft speaking of a secret.

Lyrics translation: http://www.hindilyrics.net/translation-Breathless/Koi-Jo-Mila.html


The stars illuminate,
As beautiful aircrafts leave
Skid marks across the sky
And mesmerizing cocoons
Flower into sophisticated butterflies.


I usually do not like naming my pieces “Untitled” but sometimes I have no choice but to. I wrote this piece like two years ago and unfortunately I haven’t been able to come up with a title. This piece really feels incomplete without one. Maybe you can give me some ideas.

“If one must have gone, why not I? Why may I not rest me from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? Was not the world’s alembic, Time, in his young hands, and is not my time waning? Are there so many workers in the vineyard that the fair promise of this little body could lightly be tossed away? The wretched of my race that line the alleys of the nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but Love sat beside his cradle, and in his ear Wisdom waited to speak. Perhaps now he knows the All-love, and needs not to be wise. Sleep, then, child,–sleep till I sleep and waken to a baby voice and the ceaseless patter of little feet–above the Veil.”
– W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk ‘of the passing of the first born’