It was a 4 ft by 4ft dilapidated tent with the wet soil for a floor and two sagging cots for beds. There was a pile of clothes in an open trunk and not a trace of comfort or life- just a stark, mute testimony of poverty and helplessness. Bhanu greeted me at the door and then looked around for the most befitting corner to spend the next one hour with me in. We mutually settled for the one where there was a semblance of light. I sat down on the damp floor and Bhanu dropped down facing me. I smiled across at him and opened the book we had started reading three weeks ago. Time flew by; every time I looked up to reassure Bhanu’s presence I found him looking at me wide-eyed, his brow creased in concentration and his little hands in fists in his frail lap. The exercise, and more so the occasional moments of sonorous silence, bonded us- me a social worker, and Bhanu the blind boy I read to every week.