Answers

The old man, resting on a rock, leaned over the well-worn staff held in his left hand and grinned a toothless grin.
The smell of tobacco on his breath was overwhelming.
Scanning through cataract-stricken eyes, he took in all that the stranger in front of him presented.
The day was getting hotter, as if the Sun was straining to overhear the words about to follow.
Time was growing still, a dull predictive element in a random ether.
The stranger shifted from one foot to another, apologetic to be in his presence.
A light breeze hinted at chillies frying in the distant mud huts.
Sweat trickled down the side of the stranger's face, fell off and stirred the loose soil with it's dampness.
Emaciated dogs strolled down the mud path, barking into the distance.
The old man placed his right hand on his left, both hands firmly gripping the staff; his stained turban was worth more than a crown.
The stranger leant forward on one knee.
"Seeking to be a wise amnesiac?", the old man began...