Sarod, my teacher’s hopes of me

Were long ago betrayed.

So why have I let you lie so long

Unused, unheard, unplayed?

Was it because I thought one day

I’d pluck your strings anew?

Or did I hope to find at last

A player worthy of you?

Or was it just because you seemed

To represent my youth

(Those months at Sanawar, aged eighteen)

And I couldn’t face the truth

That youth in time must be given away?

But now, with my donation,

I feel no pain of loss, but rather

The joy of liberation.

I understand, when I observe

My students’ youth and yearning,

That, when we teach, we need to give

Not only age and learning

But also our youth; and if we don’t,

There’ll be no vital spark,

No gleam of hope in our students’ eyes,

No pathway out of the dark.

And this I’ll think if ever I pass

The Music Department’s rooms

And hear the twang of my old sarod:

That a student only blooms

If a teacher gives away his youth,

Lightening, thus, the load

That age and experience place on him!

So I give you gladly, sarod.