the shell of a wild fruit which grows on the Madagascar coast, and which when ripe drops into the sea to be brought by the current to the beaches of Kerala. Once he told us the story of his pilgrimage to the temple of Meenakshi: "When I tried to enter the temple the guide told me to take off all my clothes. I asked "Why?' The guide replied, 'A naked man is closer to the god/ And so, in order to be close to the god, I took off my clothes." We were all listening intently. He cast a glance at our faces, then continued: "After walking through endless halls and corridors, we came to a dark, narrow room. Inside, in the darkness, reclined the god. The attending priest, after accepting the bribe of a few coins, lit a dim oil lamp to cast light on Him. The god's naked body lay covered with a sheet. I turned to the guide and asked why was that. He replied, 'So that the god may not come too close to the man."' That story should tell you something about his remarkable way with words. He could take a simple matter and turn it into something profound. That was exactly what had drawn me to him. If I didn't see him for some days, I'd feel strange feelings stirring inside me, and with the passing of time, those feeling would change--just as seasons change. Then suddenly we'd find him again. Swinging his leather briefcase his own special way, he'd stride into our midst. We could then see a smile spread over his face—as when a snake-charmer plays on his reed. Several times I thought of asking him. Tell me, how deep are the oceans?' I don't know why but I felt confident that he—and only he—could give me an answer. Then he suddenly disappeared. He had, of course, done that before, but not for such a long time. We didn't see him for nearly three years. I felt as if for a very long time I had not met my own self. All of us had thought of him countless times, and were now beginning to forget him. Then, one evening, as we were passing through the desolate outskirts of the city—we had been to visit a friend in the jail— we saw him. He had come out of a decrepit house and was bending down to lock the door. We rushed over to him. "So this is where you live/free' man?" one of us asked. He straightened up, but didn't give a reply. I saw that his face looked bleak, like a field shorn of its crop. A question began to nag me: "Is it possible that something in this world could put fetters on this free spirit?' Slowly we wended our way back to the heart of the city. It was rather late, but he quietly walked along with us. And when we finally parted and bade each other "Goodnight", he walked off in a separate direction without any response. Some time later my son's birthday came around. I had managed to ask all my friends to come except him. He hadn't been seen for several days. Finally I decided I'd call at his house to invite him. I went there alone. The door was locked from inside. It was fixed to a high boundary wall, behind which was the yard of the Annual of Urdu Studies, #7 63