And I am sitting here in Behta Pani in my study, far, far away from it. I had debated going again, but you know, the playwright is the most extraneous of people once the production is mounted. Irrelevant. Behind the scenes. Anonymous. I keep thinking of Shakespeare (without comparing myself to him, however! I wouldn’t have the temerity!) who was so anonymous that nothing of him but his plays survive. I think of God — evidence of him or her everywhere without his presence or even his name upon our tongues. Of course, there are names we have invented; and the presence is palpable once we become aware of it.