A man sits on a bench, a placard in his hand saying "Free Chess". He is situated in the main square of the Cambridge city centre - Market Square. The stall workers have just packed up, and all that remains are a smattering of people finding their way to dinner.

I approach this man and he offers me a game. I take place beside him and we begin. A sophisticated event fit for the setting; we are located in an epicentre of intellectual activity, Darwin and Newton have graced the tall, gothic buildings looking down upon us. A few moves in he strikes up conversation. He tells me of his past as drummer for a famous protest band. He mentions the name of the band and I instantly recognise them - they have graced the main stage at Glastonbury. "I spent all my money on drugs", he says. "But you should listen to them, it will inspire you. Very political stuff".

He spills beer on his torn, unwashed jeans before blundering a rook. Then a bishop. Then two pawns and a knight. He proceeds to remove my queen from the board. With his hands, not with a piece. I tell him he can't just take pieces off the board, but he doesn't understand. He no longer understands anything. He takes my king. I tell him he can't take my king, that I can't play without a king.

He no longer speaks, he is unable to speak. He struggles to make a sound, froth slipping from his lips. He is shaking, a slight tremble steadily increasing in vigour. I ask him if I can get him anything, what I can do to help. A man walks by, recognising my opponent, my companion. The man has seen him before, helped him before. I ask if I should call the ambulance, now panicking. The man takes out a lighter, and lights the cigarette hanging from my companion's mouth.

"They don't care about him. No one cares about him. They will check he isn't dying and leave". It is cold, and the only lights stream from street-lamps. Where will he sleep?

The cigarette relieves my companion and he manages to communicate in broken sentences. The homeless centre refuses him access, he says. He insists it is because he is homeless, but I find the contradiction hard to swallow. Instead his daughter has a shed he can stay in.

I am advised to find coffee, it would help to keep my companion warm. By this time another homeless man has joined, a friend of my companion. He asks for a coffee too, and I oblige. My companion pips up at that point, asking for a beer instead. Paternalistic instincts take over and I refuse: alcohol is unhealthy, alcohol is not what you need right now. But I have no experience dealing with withdrawal symptoms alone. I have no experience coping with this frosty climate at night, covered by little more than a ragged t-shirt and jeans. I return with two coffee cups, hand them over and then stand around awkwardly, feeling out of place. Then I leave, my guilt temporarily assuaged, but not permanently so. I know I have the means to do far more. Later on that night I spend money on drinks and a restaurant meal. That money could have gained him a place for the night, it could have bought him a hot meal.

He will return tomorrow. But one of these days there may be no one around to help him,

Vedantha

Thursday 7th November