Joseph guessed that Asan might have gone to visit his mistress in Sandanpudur, but there was no way of knowing this for sure. Asan was an enigmatic person—only his own shadow was privy to his movements. It was perfectly normal for him to vanish without a word to anyone, then appear several days later and carry on as if nothing had happened that needed explaining. If we had managed to learn anything about his private life, it was bits and pieces we had gathered from various sources, nothing more. The very same Asan who spun such fantastic tales for us never once, not even by mistake, gave us a fleeting glimpse of his own life story. It was just as Joseph often remarked—Asan’s mind was like the secret chamber inside a Dindigul iron safe. We never got our hands on the key.

When Asan finally reappeared outside Joseph’s shop, he looked terrible. Our storyteller appeared to be in the throes of some deadly fever. The sight of him—his body gone slack, his neck sagging, and his ribs poking out—moved us immensely. We put our heads together and tried, both directly and more subtly, to find out what had happened. But Asan evaded all our questions.

How withered he looked! The Asan we knew could stoically bear even the most heart-wrenching misery. We believed that as long as he had a hint of life in his throat to tell stories, a small audience to listen, and a roll of Jaffna tobacco to chew, even the worst sorrows would cower from him and run away. He was a fearless artist who had managed, by the sheer act of telling stories, to keep time’s gaping void at bay. One could even say that he practiced the art of storytelling as his sacred duty till his last breath. So many poets in our country have been supported by patrons! (These patrons’ poor taste and misguided generosity are quite evident when we examine the merits of some of those poets.) How could it be that there was no patron wise enough to embrace our dear Asan, pamper him with attention, and relish his stories for a lifetime?

We were shaken by the injustice of it. Quietly, careful not to draw Asan’s attention as he sat on the bench in front of Joseph’s shop, we emptied our pockets into a handkerchief behind the laundry table. One of us set off with a tiffin carrier to buy him snacks. Asan, who had pretended until then to not notice what was going on, shouted after him: “Also buy two Kalimark cheroots!”

Once Asan had the snacks and coffee we’d bought him, he looked much better. Contentment spread across his features as he lit the cheroot and took a puff. The way he shook his legs inside his veshti reminded me of how a calf wags its tail when it drinks from its mother’s udder.