…won’t let me take his picture. It’s wrong of me to say that this person is the strangest man in India, but he does happen to be the most eccentric, exotic human being I, personally, have ever encountered. I don’t know what his name is, just that he’s a holy man — a sadhu, so we are to call him Baba. He is 95 and has been living in this rat’s nest the size of a broom closet for 75 of those years. He rises every day at 4 a.m. to go outside (while it’s still dark, mind you), but other than that, stays inside by the candle-light all day to pray and offer spiritual wisdom. He does not, however, seem keen on sharing any of this wisdom with us.

He’s a hermit and a hoarder because all his waking hours are devoted to conversing with his Hindu god, Shiva. Shiva talks back and offers advise and counsel. This conversation ensues by Baba rolling what’s left of his stomach in waves, and in so doing makes a gurgling noise that sounds like his guts are grumbling, “Shiva, Shiva, Shiva.” Then there are more grumbles, and that’s Shiva talking, and Baba interprets. This, of course, is very time consuming and gets in the way of all other activities such as eating and bathing. Besides talking to god all day, the only other thing Baba has time for is smoking mass amounts of ganja. At least he has his priorities in order.

This act of divine abdominal intervention is made stranger by the fact that Baba is naked and weighs about 80 pounds. Emaciated is the right word to use. He’s wearing what looks like a linen g-string salvaged from the days of India’s very creation. It’s red like Arizona brick and dirty, and its contents appear less the size of sad, old lemon. His eyes are glassy like scratched shooter marbles, and his wad of a single nappy dreadlock wraps around his body like a Shel Silverstein sketch. He has been growing his hair his whole life, but when it gets too long, he cuts it off and hangs it on the wall next to the broken clock and the animal harness. The dreads of yesteryear are now covered in cobwebs and soot and are probably harboring small animals.

Baba and the four of us barely fit in his closet. Yes, it’s small, but mostly it’s difficult because of all the stuff. Since he’s a holy man, passersby are constantly offering gifts of produce and knick-knacks. There are bananas (old and new), oranges, bruised apples and coconuts of assorted size all over the place; plus a kajilion plastic bags filled with Lord-knows-what, a small smoldering fire, boxes of incense, countless newspaper pages, assorted unidentifiable rubbish, black iron kettles, two iron cooking pans, things that generally confuse me, glass bottles, ancient sepia photos, rusty chains, religious images, firewood, flies and spider webs. It’s like he’s a shrine and all this shit is his offering.

This is the single moment in my life when I ignore my mother’s order not to stare. Instead, I just sit there in the garbage closet and let my eyes roam as they please. This character is awesome, and I’m pretty sure my mouth is ajar. We are permitted to stay with Baba for only a few minutes, but I could have sat around just looking at him all day. Of all the things I didn’t get to take a picture of in India, Baba is the most regrettable.