The Fault in Default

There is a particular quality to the light in old Delhi at six in the morning. Not golden — that word is too clean for it. More like the light has been filtered through decades of stone and argument and forgotten prayers.

I stop because the light asks me to. Because there is something in its arrival — unhurried, amber, indifferent — that feels like the answer to the question I've been circling for years.

यही खोज है। This is the search. Not the finding. The finding is brief, and then it's gone. The search is what remains.