There’s something soft about the night, where the dark is like an embrace that tells you it’s all going to be fine, that gentles your pain and blunts the sharp edge of grief, not by taking it away, but by holding it just lightly enough that you can breathe again.
The world recedes a little in these hours, its demands and noise withdrawing into the background, leaving behind a quiet that is not empty, but full—full of things you do not notice in the day, full of thoughts that surface only when you are still enough to receive them.
My mind drifts, unanchored, floating across old memories of silvered mountains and gleaming rivers, places where time seemed slower, kinder, more forgiving, and whispers half-formed wishes for a life that could have been, and perhaps, in some distant, reshaped way, still can be.
There is a strange stillness despite the noise—the hum of the fan, the distant sounds of the city that never fully sleeps—borne witness to by the moon, quiet and constant, asking for nothing, offering only presence.
And somewhere within that stillness, I hear Alaipayuthey in raga Kanada, its longing unfolding gently, its wistfulness softened by a thread of hope that runs through it, delicate but unbroken.
I hold this moment close.
This fragile, generous gift of beauty.
This small, steady piece of strength that does not solve anything, does not change the facts, but somehow makes them easier to carry.
Something to tide me over.
Until the next moment.
Until the next demand.
Until the next wave rises.
My little son Krishna calls.
The crisis is here.
