The old man in Orchha
She said, "Give him a glass." He said, "No." "Why not?" she persisted. "Servants cannot drink from masters' glasses," he replied. Just a few hours earlier, a bus had screeched to a halt in the dusty centre of Orchha in central India and I had alighted. The shack was open on all sides. You could enter from anywhere. Twisted wooden poles, each in a slightly different angle, held up a tattered, sky blue tarpaulin sheet. Or rather it must have been sky blue when it was bought. Now it looked as if the sky was covered with dark, dirty clouds. Instead of a signboard with the name of the restaurant, there was a board advertising a brand of bottled water. From a jute string tied between two poles, Lay's chips packets were strung. The air smelled of agarbattis (incense sticks) which slowly smouldered as a mark of respect to Hindu deities. Water dripped with a constant tip, tip, tip from a leaking tap. Cracked, some broken, plastic tables were hap...