Perhaps it was one of those afternoons when you still churn the sedimentary dregs of sleep post your power nap, relish the overdose of melatonin in your blood cells, and sense a profound desolation of indolence. You desperately need something around. Yes, you read it right - something. You don’t need someone, but probably the vision to handle your free will. And then you call up your satirtha , disciple of the same guru. “Hey, bud! Game for spending some time with Marwa?” He agrees. Even after sixty years of His death, you reincarnate the combatant in you with his explanation of raga Marwa while noticing the agile swiftness from dhaivaat to komal rishav. You grasp the undeniable prowess of its dynamism. You stand on its every note and smell how tired and wretched the warrior sounds after a long unwilling battle, which was never meant to be his forte. He lost. But is all lost? ‘The study of revenge? The imm...