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with a glass of misty water. He lowered himself to the ground once more before handing it to Siri.
    “Forgive me, sir. Where were my manners?”
    Siri knew better than to drink unidentified water so he merely touched his lips to the surface.
    “Thank you, Bhiku. I was wondering whether you might know where Rajid is right now. Nobody’s seen him for ten days.”
    “I know this, sir. I too am very concerned.”
    “Does your son ever tell you about places he likes to go? Places where he hides out?”
    “Sir, it is sad that I am to say this, but my poor son has not uttered a word since our family tragedy.”
    Siri personally knew that not to be true but he didn’t see this as an appropriate moment to say so.
    “If it’s not too difficult for you,” Siri said, “I’d like to hear that, story.”
    “Oh, sir. It is such a small tale for such a great man to waste his time with.”
    Siri laughed. “Dear Bhiku, I really am not a great man.”
    “Forgive me for begging to differ, sir, but you are Dr Siri Paiboun. You were pointed out to me at the hospital. You are the greatest man in the entire hemisphere.”
    Siri wanted to laugh again but it felt oddly irreverent to do so. He absentmindedly took a sip of his water. “You shouldn’t believe everything my wife tells you,” he joked to shake off the embarrassment.
    “I have seen it with my own eyes. My son adores you.”
    “He does?”
    “Yes, sir. He has informed me of your nature and your ability.”
    “You said he can’t speak.”
    “And that is true, sir. But he writes.”
    “Cr – Rajid writes?”
    “Indeed, sir. He writes beautifully. I taught all of my children as my father had taught me. Although my son’s body and mind have been taken by the Asuras , his true self is still with us in his script.”
    “Could I see it?”
    “I am delighted to show you, sir. Unfortunately, you cannot read his words for yourself as they are in Hindi, and he writes in old verse. But there are several stanzas dedicated to you, Doctor.”
    Siri was astounded. Crazy Rajid, aka Jogendranath, had always been a character on the fringes of Siri and Civilai’s lunches, swinging in trees, bathing naked in the Mekhong, occasionally masturbating. The thought that he might, like a coma patient, have been aware of everything that was being said, while unable to express himself, made Siri feel a sudden pang of guilt. The two old men could be unkind at times.
    “What did he write?” Siri asked.
    “Yes, sir. He mentions your kindness, and the kindness of your friends. You brought him clothes, fed him, included him in your celebrations. I know that others treated him well – it is the Lao way to be kind to those less fortunate – but I feel that you did not look down on him.”
    Siri was touched.
    “I’d like to hear about your tragedy,” Siri said.
    “If you insist, sir. In a nutshell, we – my wife and two daughters and two sons – were travelling to Burma by boat. For a better life, it was. I had been offered work in a factory there. Alas, the boat was not as strong as our resolve. There was a storm. Only myself and Jogendranath survived. We were adrift for four days. By the time we were rescued, my son had lost hold of his sanity.”
    “So, you and he…?”
    “Some work in Burma, sir, until the junta put a crackdown on us illegals. Then to Thailand and casual work. Then a kind Punjabi invited us here. I had cooked for him in Rangoon. He was coming to open this restaurant in Vientiane. He sadly is demised now. It is his son who runs it today.”
    His life story had been told in five minutes, and there was sorrow in his large puffy eyes.
    “And Rajid?”
    “He has periods when he remembers me. At other times I am absent from his mind, sir. We have not spoken since the final day on the boat.”
    Siri knew the Indian could speak. He’d heard him. He wondered what blockage there was between son and father. What was Rajid thinking that made him ignore the man who