a post with the picture missing

at the foot of the wall, a figure sits hunched over a paper-plate containing some rice and daal. Impossibly thin, sinewy arms poke out of a threadbare blanket thrown around its shoulders to keep the winter morning chill out.

He has a stubble and a bony head that makes him look ancient. A few tattered rags cover his wispy white hair. Thick dirty glasses dominate the face – their frame held together by some kind of tape – probably the result of long-ago operation to remove cataracts in some rural eye camp around here. I doubt he can see anything but the vaguest of blurs.

As he hungrily shovels food into his mouth, I consider taking a picture. But something about the idea strikes me as sacrilegious, so I put my camera away. He notices me and turns to look up. Hugely magnified eyes crinkle up and, like a burst of fireworks, a giant toothless grin reaches out from ear to ear on his shriveled face.