WHEN I FIRST met Prakash in the small Shiva temple in Benares that he helped finance, he was dressed in a clean white dhoti and was talking to the temple priest about God, his face brighter than the murtis on the altar.
“We must get together in New York,” he insisted. He gave me his card, sticky with prasad. It was hard to imagine him as a New Yorker. To New York, God is just another immigrant.