It was the sedate sixties, when young India was in survival mode, grappling with wars with its neighbors on the external front, and battling poverty on the internal front. For people in the rat race such as it was, getting by, was the finish line, the end of life. But every time throws its own lifeline for those few who abdicate the rat race to run their own race.

It happened to a young man who could have survived, who could have got by, in an obscure place, hidden in a corner of the Pensioner’s Paradise, i.e. Bangalore, the capital city of sedate Mysore State. No one would have then heard of Harry Davis.