Seated in the half lotus position for a bout of meditation, I see my hand reaching for a pen to dig for you. A half believer – can belief ever be total? – I look to resurrect you using words, for some thing in each of us needs reassurance that we are somehow lovable in spite of ourselves.

This then is the route I am taking to that vanishing avenue flanked with old neem trees, fireflies on summer nights, a fifty paisa moon and strong cigarette smoke on winter nights. I will stay there for a while listening for echoes of footsteps, cycle bells, and that fluent and terrible beauty of swearing.

The telephone will remain silent, off the hook, the letters will be unopened on the table as constellations change in the sky, seasonal actors playing bit roles. The silence – one also hears this in sanctums of ancient temples – will toll the hours in answer, as always from God or Whoever, in exchange for this scrap of paper I shall throw into the offering plate – I know it is insufficient, but what will suffice? – in thanks for having known you, O Brother Memory.