““You did not come to give me anything. You came to sit.””
Ramji-kaka has lived alone for seven years. He rises at four, opens the door for the sun, folds his blankets, and puts water on the fire. Then he waits for the day to pass.
On our first visit, we brought his monthly medicines and a paper bag with rice and dal in it. He accepted them politely and asked us to sit. Then he pointed at a small book on the shelf, its cover taped down with cellophane. He asked us to read.
We read the Ramayan aloud for forty minutes. He did not close his eyes. He did not speak. When we stopped, he said one sentence — and then he went to make us tea.
