A beautiful story. Do not miss it. It was getting dark. Someone was calling from behind the locked iron gate. Wondering who it could be I came out. An elderly person was standing behind the gate. The clothes wrinkled and with a small bag in his hand he appeared to have travelled some distance coming here. Looking into a small piece of paper in his hands he enquired, “Isn’t this Anand, Number8, Yogananda Street, my son?” “Yes, I am Anand and this is the address. And you…”, I mumbled. Slightly shivering and moistening his dry lips with the tongue he replied, handing over the letter, “Babu, I am your father’s friend. I am coming from your village. Your father gave me this letter and advised that I seek help from you”. Taking that letter from him, exclaiming “father?”, I eagerly read that letter. “Dear Anand, blessings to you. The person carrying this letter is my friend. His name is Ramayya. Works hard. A few days ago, his only son died in an accident. He is running around se