readily found examples. Their appearance seemed
straight out of Dickens—or those old state reports.
The Guru Vishram Vridh ashram, for instance, is a
charity-runoldagehomeinaslumonthesouthedgeof
NewDelhi, where open sewage ran in thestreets and
emaciateddogsrummagedinpilesoftrash.Thehomeis
aconvertedwarehouse—avast,openroomwithscoresof
disabled elderly people on cots and floor mattresses
pushed up against one another like a large sheet of
postage stamps. The proprietor, G. P. Bhagat, who
appeared to be in his forties, was clean-cut and
professionallooking,witha cellphone thatrangevery
twominutes.Hesaidhe’dbeencalledbyGodtoopenthe
placeeightyearsbeforeandsubsistedondonations.He
saidheneverturnedanyoneawayaslongashehadan
open bed. About half of the residents were deposited
therebyretirementhomesandhospitalsiftheycouldn’t
paytheirbills.Theotherhalfwerefoundinthestreets
andparksbyvolunteersorthepolice.Allsufferedfroma
combination of debility and poverty.
TheplacehadmorethanahundredpeoplewhenIvisited.
Theyoungest was sixty and theoldestpast a century.
Those on the first floor had only “moderate” needs.
Among them, I met a Sikh man crawling awkwardly
along the ground, in a squat, like a slow-moving
frog—hands-feet,hands-feet,hands-feet.Hesaidheused
toownanelectricalshopinanupscalesectionofNew
Delhi. His daughter became an accountant, his son a
softwareengineer.Twoyearsagosomethinghappenedto
him—hedescribedchestpainand whatsounded likea
seriesofstrokes.Hespenttwoandahalfmonthsinthe