Straw hat in hand, I crouched next to Bradley and offered him a water bottle. His fetal shell afforded a small opening as clammy little hands shot out to receive the package, but it promptly sealed up again. No luck. I knelt down and put my hand on his shoulder – he winced and swiped it aside. I inserted a tennis ball in his hands and said, “If you can hit this ball over the net, I’ll leave you alone.” ...

After my first masterclass with Pt. Nayan Ghosh, I couldn't walk anywhere without Tabla rhythms inlaying themselves over the pulse of my step. It was an unhealthy obsession. I would practice the patterns as I biked to school or walked to class, steadying a beat with my feet, trying to throw each pattern against three beats, four beats, and five and thirteen and so on. Improvisation was akin to interpreting the work of Escher, something in three beats – now it...

Talked about music and mathematics.

They're useless...