He said: When a bow rubs against the strings of a well-tuned sarangi, music flows through all the heavens and brings life to all the worlds.
Come, Khema. Be my little sarangi. Make me your bow.
When the music is over, I told him, there’s nothing left but the applause and some sweeping up.
After the tune you mean to play, I would carry the melody for nine long months, and it wouldn’t end there.
This is the song your parents played as they watched the stars circling high overhead.
This is the song their parents played as they tended the fires deep in the dark forest. It is an old, old song.
But listen closely.
Far from human voices there are songs of freedom sung only by the wind in the leaves.
–Bhikshuni Khema, Therigata (Poems of the First Buddhist Nuns)