Greetings once more,

Last evening I received a telephone message from my brother. Alas, I was indisposed at the time—his call arrived just as my man Marrow had commenced my weekly full-body polish—so I couldn’t answer. But once I was able to corporally recover from Marrow’s ministrations with a light dégustation of terrine de gibier and sole meunière consummated with a supple marc de bourgogne, I listened to my brother’s message: a strange and frankly incomprehensible mélange of thuds and thwacks punctuated by his inimitable ah jeezes. Then the recording cut out abruptly.

Ah, but sink me—I am sure all is well! My brother has an uncanny ability to always land on his tarsi.

Trivia 1

Having completed a delightful sojourn through the heart of Europa, let us direct our gaze toward the orient.

First, the Indian subcontinent. Travel with me to Orchha, melancholy jewel of the Bundelkhand. Here my dear friend Aditya keeps a modest haveli where he has graciously invited us for the evening to attend a concert. We arrive, and Aditya greets us with two crystal glasses of delicate nimbu paani; it is the perfect antidote for the sleepy heat that has weighed upon us all day. He then gently ushers us into the drawing room where three musicians—tabla, sitar, and tanpura—greet us in silence. We take our places on two silk cushions situated at the far end of the room. Then the performance begins.

What they play—Darbari Kanada—cannot be so simply encapsulated in our impoverished English tongue. The word “song” is certainly inadequate: it is structure, a framework, a coloring of the mind. The term “scale” is worse, connoting as it does a rude mechanical escalator. No, we require the proper Sanskrit term: what word from Indian classical music describes this melodic framework that encompasses not merely notes, but mood, time, and spiritual essence?

Trivia 2

The next morning we awake, still feeling transformed by our sublime evening of aural pleasure. We bid farewell to Aditya and continue our travels eastward.

Now we reach the Land of the Rising Sun, Nippon, where my close associate Seiji greets us at the threshold of his handsome Kyoto machiya. After exchanging our ponderous outdoor footwear for more elegant zōri, we follow Seiji through a series of tatami rooms. He pauses briefly for us to appreciate a priceless Bizen vase tastefully displayed in a tokonoma alcove—then leads us into his innermost sanctuary, where he will initiate us into the mystery of kōdō, that most ethereal of the three classical arts of refinement.

As chadō transforms the humble tea leaf into a ceremony of gustatory appreciation, and kadō (or ikebana) speaks to our visual mind through its mute floral language, so kōdō leads us via our olfaction into a meditation on impermanence itself by way of the appreciation of what?