It began, as awakenings so often do, with a picture on my phone. A blurred, burning sun — doubled, dissolving, dreamlike — hovering above a horizon that looked more like memory than morning. Beneath it glowed a single word:

Eremitism — the act of gradually fading from the lives of others, not out of malice but from a desire for solitude or renewal.

The image lingered in my mind like incense. Perhaps because birthdays arrive disguised as mirrors. Perhaps because November carries its own hush, a soft, smoky stillness that settles on the skin of thought. Or perhaps because India — saffron-soaked and stirred into a feverish fervour — is re-staging the Ramayana in public squares and televised temples, and I found myself wondering about vanvas, the Indian archetype of retreat.

Not the politic

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