On the night of the concert, the hall smelled of incense and old varnish. The audience was an improbable mix: the migrant worker whose voice note had come first-row; the elderly woman with dancing in her eyes; members of the forum who’d boarded a bus to be there. Arun's hands shook before the first note. He played as if telling a secret, letting the sax breathe into the microphones and into the dark. The electronics hummed like a second heartbeat. Between songs, people told one another how the music had arrived in their lives: in hospital rooms, on late-night bus rides, in kitchens where arguments had been softened by the tune.
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