At times he gets agitated. It's nothing I say (I say verylittle). It's his own story that does it. Memory is an oceanand he bobs on its surface. I worry that he'll want to stop.
But he wants to tell me his story. He goes on. After allthese years, Richard Parker still preys on his mind.
He's a sweet man. Every time I visit he prepares a SouthIndian vegetarian feast. I told him Hike spicy food. I don'tknow why I said such a stupid thing. It's a complete lie. Iadd dollop of yogurt after dollop of yogurt. Nothing doing.
Each time it's the same: my taste buds shrivel up and die,my skin goes beet red, my eyes well up with tears, myhead feels like a house on fire, and my digestive tractstarts to twist and groan in agony like a boa constrictorthat has swallowed a lawn mower.