The Fixed Table

I have a table.

Not literally. But I know exactly where I want to sit in every room I walk into. The angle of the chair. The view of the door. The particular comfort of knowing what is coming and from where.

I call it preference. It wears that costume well. A habit, a compulsion. Not always a conversation with now. A negotiation with chaos.

A small flag planted in the ground that says: here. At least here. I know exactly who I am.

The staff know my name. The drink is already coming.

The Form Remembers

The phone surfaced it without warning. A photograph from years ago — a corridor, stone, silence. A painting so small it barely registered in the frame. I remembered leaning in. Having to. The face was that small. Mary. Mother. Someone had placed that brushstroke centuries ago knowing exactly what they were

The Source

After the music stops, there is a silence that is different from the silence before it. Something has moved through the room. You can't name it. You don't try. We think we listen to music. But there are moments — rare, unasked for — when the music finds

The Musician

He learned to hold the sarod the way his guru held it. The angle of the wrist. The weight of the arm. The particular stillness before the first note. He didn't choose this. It entered him the way language enters a child — before choice, before resistance, before he

The Raga

You put on a raga. You weren't thinking about loss. And then something found you — precise, uninvited, knowing exactly where to press. How did it know? The word raga comes from rang. Colour. It doesn't play you a feeling. It colours the interior until what was

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The Form Remembers

The Source

The Musician

The Raga