I’m at a crumbling house in Nuwara Eliya. The paint peels, the lights flicker. A fireplace burns at night. Dust pervades my ENT. In the morning the lights in the volcano are out. You can see the painted blue hills in the distance, terraced tea in the middle, untended gardens in the fore. The scene is framed in a picture window. My eye sees both the crumble and the clime. The camera can only expose one, the interior scene is obscured into black. This is not the way it is. It’s just the frame.