This is a poem about being talked about, written by somebody who will not be in the room to hear it. Almost every line is other people's voices. Why are you so upset. Why do you flinch away from anything cheerful. Look at her hair. Look at those bangles. Look at her hands shaking. Even her prayers are being missed now. Hardly a word of it describes grief directly. All of it describes grief being noticed.
What makes it hard to sit through is how specific the watching is. Dried-out hair. Bangles. Trembling hands. Nobody remarks on those things in a person who is fine. And the detail that hurts most is put in somebody else's mouth: she takes offence even while she is laughing. Somebody has been paying very close attention to arrive at that.
Then the poem starts giving orders, and that is what gives it away. Do not let any of it show on your face. Whatever happens, do not ask them anything. Do not mention me. He has just spent six passages proving that people will work it out regardless, and now he is asking her to hold a line he has already demonstrated cannot be held.
You can read that last instruction as protection, and it is. You can also read it as a man protecting himself, preferring to go unmentioned rather than be discussed, and it is that too. The poem never decides between them, and it leaves you carrying both.
Then the first line comes back by itself, once word gets out, it will travel a long way, and the poem stops. It is the only line that ever repeats, and by the time it returns you know exactly what word he means. Jagjit Singh sings the instructions in the same voice as the prophecies, and in this poem they are the same thing.