'You from India? Dreadfully poor place, I was there for three weeks, saw a dead boy on the street,' gasps Mrs. Gentry, sizing me with squinted eyes as if to give more lens might tempt me to dive into her yuppie life. How can I tell her I've nursed the starved, the forsaken, or those on a parched afternoon, that give up under a thin tree or the shade of a culvert, hallucinating a winged charpoy to whisk them to swarga, where gods line up with handfuls of bliss to make up for their battered mortality.