Jora sang shabads before he could tie a turban. Four hundred people in a gurdwara hall forgot to breathe, and a boy of nine told them exactly what he would do with the gift he'd been given.

He never did it.

He wrote what sold instead. Nine years of it. He is the biggest voice in Punjabi music now, and every year the money asks him for the same song in a new coat, and every year he gives it.

Alone in a cabin at the end of a logging road — a guitar, a bottle he promised he wouldn't bring, two weeks to write, and a contract waiting for his name — Jora Singh discovers he can no longer write the thing that made him rich, and does not yet know how to write anything else.

Between them stands the only question that matters:

What is a gift for?

A song is a hand. It either picks up or pushes down.
There is no third one.

Tera keeta jaato naahi. Maino jog keetoi.