The radio voice that made rain on our roof listen, and how I taped him.

A brisk, half-annoyed voice that rounds every sum up and every sentence down.

What the monsoon does to a recording, and the afternoon I stopped fighting it.

Why a call across the backwaters stretches every vowel, and how to borrow that stretch.

I gesture at the microphone and it helps. Three small movements that change my pitch.

The whole studio: one room, two pillows, a wardrobe door and the hum of a fridge.

I recorded two women telling the same story and found how differently they breathe.

Editing a character piece, I learned which breaths to keep and which to lose.

Gibberish in a borrowed rhythm taught me more than any script of an aunt.

The first warm-up I ever did in the spare room, and why it still opens my day.