Dredging up some old stuff

Years ago, I saw a Kierkegaard-loving, English-spouting vagrant on the streets of Trivandrum. I was transfixed by a thought: with luck, I would probably end up like him.

He was sitting on the road by the side of a wall. His tattered clothes were black with grime and skin scarred with lesions. His matted hair shook as he frenetically wrote on the wall with a piece of charcoal.

Street tramps usually drew pictures of gods from Hindu mythology. Angry gods in bright colors. Or scenes from crucifixion of Christ. Searing pain, despair and redemption.

Soon some local toughs came and chased away the man. He ran gracefully, smiling, without a backward glance. I could see his words now. KISS THE FISH. I KISS ALL THE BUSES.

A few days later I saw him scribbling on a wall near my home. ANIMAL LEATHER - UNPLEASANT, PLASTIC - SOUND. His cryptic messages soon appeared all over the city.

I last saw him at the city centre, running away when a crowd collected to read his scrawl.

WHAT IS YOUR AMBITION, DREAM?
MILK?
LSD?
$?

I stood there for a long time.