On the streets of the old bazaar, there sat a man in rags. Every time I passed by , he smiled and looked away. Neither was he handsome nor was he wealthy. Still I thought about him. Why would anyone wait on streets for years together ? I had seen him there since I was a kid. An autumn morning , I heard he passed away. On the street. No one heard his dying words. No one offered him gangaja l or tulsi . He died unmourned , un-noticed. The bazaar still smelt of spices and perfume. Years later, I heard his story. From an antique woman. In his prime, the man was a successful merchant. He had a comfortable home and a lovely wife. One morning, his wife was on her way to the temple on the hillock. A raging earthquake hit the city and razed the hillock to ground. The lovely wife was lost, never to be found. May be she had died , buried under the rubble. The merchant never lost hope. Gradually he began to live on the street, hoping that his lovely wife would return. Gradually, he l