Locked in a basement room all his life with rats and cockroaches for company, RK did not emerge with a perfectly balanced view of life.

Seventeen years old, with hair the colour of lime, RK had people flocking to him, trying to turn the kid from the dungeon into a celebrity. He embraced all of these attempts but kept his distance from the perpetrators and dived straight into a life of sex and drugs. No rock ‘n’ roll, unless you count listening.

At twenty-two, he realised he had inherited a violent streak from his father, or maybe it was simply an inability to adjust to regular life. He tried to analyse whether he was normal, but there was no normal on view anywhere to compare.

Before he could begin to hack his way through the people that surrounded him, he went off into the mountains and became a legitimate hermit.

By the time RK had turned forty, everyone had forgotten about the weird kid who wept at orgies. But the guru in the mountains had gained a lot of publicity, and he came back willing to embrace it. There were still orgies that he wept at, but these tears were of joy.