About fifteen meters from where I was, at the opposite end of an elongated and dark room, he was sitting in a small bowl, with his face and saffron clothes radiating under a small light. He was an old man — about sixty years old, I thought —, and he was sitting with his legs crossed, in a standing and majestic posture. His head was ripped, and his powerful face and mirrors with a raised carey mount gave him the appearance of a monk who had spent most of his life absorbed in the studio. He had his eyes closed, and he sang in low voice a simple Script oration while playing a small drum. The reduced audience intervened at intervals, in a form of calling and response. A few people played hand bells, which explained the bells that I had sound