It was an old, cane table; the webbing had suffocated under a fading coat of white paint. Someone who lived on Bishop Garden St wanted to help Amma out and had donated the table along with two chairs. One night that table lay overturned on the floor, after it bounced off father's legs. From where I sat, the landlord's rage had filled out the rest of the top frame of the scene. Rent had not been paid for months. Nana had only asked for more time. A failed negotiation. An overturned table.

But for today's gathering, I wish to turn that table as I call upon T.R. (my spirit animal!) to report on the various ways one can sing and dance on tables.

from Ganga Rudraiah