This is my story in india

This is my story in india 'Are you Baul? I don't know why, but it took me many, many days to ask this question. I threw the question at him, as if I were revealing a treasure I had treasured. But he clasped his hands together and began to sing, strumming a one-stringed instrument. But who wanted a language? Not me, not him. Singing was singing, and that was enough for me to meet Baul. It was the first time I was not ashamed of my hand holding out a one-rupee note-I remember clearly that it was a note, not a coin. Would we never meet anyway? The barefoot singer stood there like an ancient man, but I was on a Yamaha 350cc motorbike! That day, I rode my motorbike to the outskirts of Poona city. There was no sign of civilisation there - just a procession of oxcarts loaded with sugar cane, people in white turbans, huts on the barren ground. I felt like I was back in a distant, ancient world. As I shared a cigarette with a ancient man under the red sunset, I had a hunch that the question, "Are you Baul?" would never come up again. I met this singer a few more times after that, still he was barefoot, and I was on a motorbike. Still he was an ancient man, and I was a civilised man. But we met! I had to wait for the sweet whipped cream bread from the German bakery to fill his belly, while he praised his unexpected windfall. Through a single prayer, through a single song, but did he know that it was I who had received the gift What words are needed for fateful love, only gratitude and appreciation. This is my story in india. This is my story in india