No one I know
He lived in folds. And bent his knees together till he was caving in on himself. He had no chest. Just a pouchy tummy. Limp hair. Looked like a Mr Slytherin. Had thick lips. Put him in the Simpsons. He would sit on the roadside chai-wallah's with his legs crossed, hunched forwards and look at you with yellow glazed eyes, holding a conversation with all the semblance of sitting in a drawing room. A cigarette would hang loosely from his hands, but emanate no artsy razzmatazz. And he would stumble and stammer. He was so much his own echo, that more than himself, he was an echo, his echo. Tell him something cheerful; tell him an achievement and he would ask “So, should I salute you?” And in a while he would bite his lower lip and ask if he had spoken too much. He apologized. He apologized so much that he was less a man, more an apology. And he never knew all that. He lived in some other reality where his plans were just about to be realised.