I stop, and you speak softly, your voice with that dove-like, cooing quality of some from India – perhaps from a more constricted internal shaping of the mouth than I’m used to.

“I am having trouble with my eyes.” you say, pointing at the now-evident milky signs of cataract. “I need to go to hospital for an operation, but it is very expensive. Can you help me?”

“How much do you need?”

“Ten thousand rupees.”

I hesitate. This is a reasonable chunk of my travel budget.

A passing rickshaw driver stops and intercedes. “He is a good man. You should give him 20 rupees.”

You gesture him away discreetly.

I reach into my money belt and begin counting out the crisp brown notes.