In Kashmir, where the year
has four, clear seasons, my mother
spoke of her childhood
in the plains of lucknow, and of that season in itself, the monsoon, when krishna's flute is heard on the shores of the jamuna. she played old records
of the Banaras thumri singers.
Siddheshwari and Rasoolan, their voices longing, when the clouds gather, for that invisible blue God. separation can't be...