The hinges grate as I open the teakwood box. The red felt lining feels sticky. Crumbling rosin. Picking up a piece of amber, I vigorously rub the bow into a fresh matte ivory. Holding the varnished spruce up against the sun, I clear fragments of cobweb from the resonance chamber. A silence long endured.

dust mote—
oiling the jammed pegs 
until my fingers slide 
onto a frayed E string 
the prick of autumn rust 

A few more drops of coconut oil, and the pegs glide around, smooth as butter. One full turn.

String A snaps.

Sliding a replacement through the hole and around the peg, I guide it along the groove to the tailpiece, tightening it gingerly as I pluck.

clockwise 
turning the brass 
to find my pitch 
a koel’s sudden song 
awakens the voice of spring 

Bio: Vaishnavi Ramaswamy