I was on my way home when I saw them.

They stood in the middle of the road like combatants, facing each other, their hands clasped in each others hands.

I was in a rickshaw; I had been watching them from some way off, wondering what it was they were doing. The rickshaw puller shouted at them to move, but it was like they couldn’t hear him. An old woman, and a very old man. Their hands were locked, and I saw the man’s legs were slightly bent. It was evening; the place was entirely deserted, except for the crows.

The rickshaw stopped, and I got off. They were both silent, like statues, they didn’t move.

Except for the old man’s knees, they were bent, and they were trembling. His muscles were like taut strings holding his marionette frame together. It was as if he was laboring under a great weight. His eyes were staring, his lips were parted in a grimace, and as I came toward them, I saw a single driblet of spittle fall in a weak string from his lips onto her chest.

I asked the old woman what the matter was, but she wouldn’t say anything either. It was as if it was all she could to hold on. I put my arm around the old man, and the old woman let out her breath in a long exhale. She came around to the other side, and put her shoulder under his. The old man was surprisingly frail, almost insubstantial. I asked him to move his legs, but he wouldn’t. He stood there, with his legs fixed to the ground. He was not trembling anymore, but he was holding himself rigid.

I asked him to move, again. He wouldn’t move. He was still drooling.

I was about to pick him up, and carry him inside.

The old woman peered into his face.

“Ashun,” she said.

She lifted her saree, and wiped his face.

“Ashun,” she said, again, softer.

She had to repeat it several times, before he started shuffling forward. They went toward this little house on the road. It was of bricks, but the roof was tiled. I was still supporting the old man. As we came to the house, a boy came out from it. He was younger than me, and he silently took my place.

I looked into the single room, the floor was mud, and there was a large bed in the center. There was one tube-light, and the fan pushed air in lazy circles around the ceiling. The bed was raised on bricks, and there was a hole in the bedcover at the place where it was tucked under the mattress.

They still hadn’t said a single word to me.

They didn’t even look at me. I couldn’t wait there any more, in that place that stank of dankness. I turned and walked out.

The man had had a stroke, I think. I don’t know.

I got on the rickshaw again, and went home. The rickshaw puller wanted one buck extra for having waited.

I didn’t argue.

I don’t judge.

The very naive and the very wise play with ideas of fairness; they don’t exist in the real world.