Marham — A Balm of Love

Marham — true to its name.

A salve.

An echo of something deeper.

An evening that refused to break — even when the skies did.

It was a breezy Sunday,

Under the open skies,

Guarded by a Mango tree, heavy with age,

And a tall Coconut tree, arms outstretched like a sentinel.

At Namma Ashram in Siddapura, Whitefield.

The air smelled of stories waiting to be sung.

The band walked in early.

No ceremony, no delay.

Just poetry and chords -

Strings tuned to the thrum of hearts.

The crowd cheered, unaware

Of the journey about to unfold.

Divya sat serene.

Grace in her voice as she whispered

Of the 7 padaho of Ishq in Sufism —

A map of love carved in stardust and longing.

Dilkashi — the first stir. A glance.

Uns — the world glows. You forget hunger. Thirst.

Ishq — the plunge.

Aqeedat — trust born of surrender.

Ibaadat — when love becomes prayer.

Junoon — madness, holy and wild.

And then…Maut — not death of body,

But of self, of boundaries, of name.

And so it began.

Shreyas on Tabla — heartbeat.

Saikat on Guitar — pulse.

Shobith’s Harmonium — memory.

Aniket’s Violin and Esraj — yearning.

And Soumyadeep — voice of the unspoken.

We travelled -

from pre-love,to the ache of Uns —

when the world turns golden

and nothing else matters.

And just then,

the heavens, not wanting to be left out,

opened their arms and wept.

Rain — furious, unrelenting —

claimed instruments, shoes, and the very stage itself.

But love doesn’t wait for weather.

We rushed indoors.

Divya, half-soaked and glowing, said,

"Let’s begin again."

And they did.

Dripping, laughing,

the musicians sat on the floor,

and we gathered around,like seekers around fire.

They played.

They recited.

Even when mics gave out,when the power slipped into silence -

they sang louder.

And we…

we listened louder still.

We crossed into Aqeedat,

floated through Ibaadat,

held hands with Junoon.

By the time we arrived at Maut,

we were weightless.

Drenched not in rain —but in something more eternal.

When it ended,

our clothes were dry.

But we were soaked—

in love, in memory, in yearning.

Everyone sat

wrapped in silence,

thinking of

first-loves,

forever-loves,

impossible-loves.

Eyes closed, hearts open.

Submitting.To the music.

To the moment.

To nature.

Marham didn’t just play a concert.

They cracked open the sky inside us.

They gave us love —and left us

aching,

yearning

for more.