I saw him one November evening sitting on a pavement under a canopy of Gulmohar trees on a bungalowed street on Coyaji road. Garbed in an old brown corduroy suit, a dark bowler hat, he was poring over a book under the dim sodium light of the lamppost. There was a gentle wind blowing that night and the trees cast their swaying shadows on the mossy wall behind him, the pale yellow light lending a gossamer glow to the setting, almost ethereal in its quality.