The short body, handsome face and quaint speech of a young man’s voice shattered the crystal of a morning already frozen with cold. We talked and at the end of our conversation about our lives and his, this Persian resident of Srinagar invited us for a meal of lamb. Though unsure, we agreed to visit him the next afternoon. The room dark and sparse greeted us with a woman’s smile and her home-cooked meal before disappearing behind heavy curtains. I chewed the lamb for what appeared to be an hour. When he gave us the news, “Franco is dead,” I swallowed the lamb. I cannot say I was sad.