At twilight, when the sky begins to forget the sun but has not yet fully embraced the night, King Bhupali steps onto his terrace. He is robed in simple white with a faint golden border, the kind a king wears when he no longer needs to prove he is a king.

I have always felt that raags are not things I compose on, but beings I sit with. For me, each raag is a divine, living personality—subtle, mysterious, and full of its own will. It is not something I “use” as much as someone I humbly invite.