E HAD NINE EARRINGS in his left ear, simple gold bands, spaced from the lobe to the top. His black hair was lightly hennaed so it shimmered in the changing light. He wore deep colors, purples and greens that few men risk; kohl on his eyelids; gold rings and bracelets. The first time I saw him, he was squatting on a café bench, painting his toenails with deliberate concentration. I saw him often in the next couple of weeks. He spent the afternoons in one café or another, usually drawing in a little book with extremely fine pens. I looked over his shoulder once, as I waited to pay my bill; the designs were fantastic, with involuted abstract patterns weaving together disparate mythical images – gothic towers, dragons, maidens, ogres. It seemed that the page was full but there was still a small shadow to stipple, and a highlight for the shadow and again a contrast. I never dared to speak to him. What could he have wanted from me? He seemed to be totally self-reliant. He had invented a world and he carried it like an aura, wherever he went. A couple of months later, I saw him again. I was on a balcony in New Delhi, overlooking the bazaar, and he walked past. The earrings and makeup were gone; he wore jeans and a loose shirt. I guess he was on his way home. I laughed and laughed and wouldn't tell anyone why.