Gowriteertha, a tiny temple in Kodachadri, Karnataka, India. Somewhere in the beguiling wilderness of the Sahyas is a sequestered temple in which bells and gongs and hymns and holy verses rarely stir the air. There’s a pond, too. And if you are fortunate enough, you will see someone who knows a thing or two about this place: how, when you wish for something fervently and clap, bubbles rise from the bottom of the green waters and disappear on the surface; how the pond is always, always full, even when riverwater on the other side of their village recedes in summer; how a monk who began an aashrama in the neighbouring village is known to have meditated here. Blood oozing out of leechbite-wounds on our feet, we walk around listening and seeing intently: there are details here that demand attention rightfully, enchantingly… and sometimes frighteningly, too… a snake slithers past us and into a hollow where three smaller ones await it. They vanish deeper into the hole in the mudwall as we stare, maybe we shouldn’t have. A calf walks by, the bell in its neck ringing sweetly. Two leaves float in the air and fall on the pond… the world in it is ruffled in ripples for a few moments, but oh, so softly. Time is kind here, there’s no hurry for anything. We gather tender moments like we rake the grassy earth and pick up some fallen leaves. In this world, we matter little, we matter less, but we matter nonetheless.