Ramanujan would sit working on the pial of his house on Sarangapani Sannidhi Street, legs pulled into his body, a large slate spread across his lap, madly scribbling, seemingly oblivious to the squeak of the hard slate pencil upon it. For all the noisy activity of the street, the procession of cattle, of sari-garbed women, of half-naked men pulling carts, he inhabited an island of serenity. Human activity passed close by, yet left him alone, and free, unperturbed by exams he had no wish to take, or subjects he had no wish to study.
