wooden drawers don't yield up their secrets easily. especially after monsoons.
some of them make it clear that damp rearrangements that go on in the moist darkness take up till winter to finish.
eventually when I get this drawer open i find a dark-grey, fungus-ridden spectacle case holding old spectacles with rusted and bent handles
a round, corrugated seed a small, sharp porcupine quill a used stamp, depicting two
greater adjutant storks and a brief shred of paper with words not in my handwriting:
“it’s all openness it’s all gift. run up the chorla ghats to a shouting point and scream out from the edge of a precipice: each valley is goddess each mountain is god!”