One evening, a journalist came from the city. She had heard rumors of a holy man. She brought a notebook and a recorder. She sat at his feet.
“That’s everything,” he said.
The crow. The tea. The missing shoe. The blue marble. Nothing Ever Happened -life of Papaji-
He lived in a crumbling house on the edge of a town that had no train station. Every morning, the townspeople would ask him the same question: “Papaji, what happened today?” One evening, a journalist came from the city
She waited.