Riyaz

Before the city wakes, he is already at it.

The same phrase. Again. Again. The tanpura holds its note — continuous, patient, indifferent to how long this takes.

For years, riyaz is about the note. Hitting it. Holding it. The voice learns its edges the way a hand learns a tool. This is necessary. It is not enough.

Something shifts. No one can say exactly when. The note stops being a target. The singer stops arriving at it and begins — entering it. What was effort becomes inhabited. The raga is no longer being performed. It is being received.

The masters call this bhav. Not emotion about something. The thing itself, moving through you.

The ShivPuran tells it this way.

Vishnu is born from the first churning — the void, Shiva, Shakti, creation beginning. He looks at them and asks: what is my name, what is my role. Shiva simply smiles. Do tapasya. When you are ready, I will come.

Ten thousand years pass. Shiva does not come. One day doubt arrives instead. And then — only then — Shiva appears. Jaha shanka hai, waha shiv nahi. Begin again.

Vishnu begins again. Thousands of years until the water starts flowing through his body. The entire ocean. And he floats on it.

Riyaaz is the becoming.