Maruti

It was a hot day, he wiped sweat off his brow. It beat upon his head, his neck warming up. He could feel the sweat in his armpits, he could smell the sweat on the man beating the donkey, could hear the whip hissing through air, and the subsequent bray of the poor beast. He sighed and moved on.

Tapped on one glistening window, it too was hot to the touch. He could see shadows inside, if he squinted his eyes, he could probably make out who and how many people. But that was rude. That was also probably why he did not make a lot of money. A girl outside a car a few feet away had her arms cupped on the window, her face peering through them. There we go, the window slid open, a hand hastily darted out, and dropped some paper on her cupped hands.

His heart dropped.

The sun beat on.

He could taste the humidity on his tongue, he saw a dog panting nearby. Eyes looking blank, dazed, confused. Reasonable, considering how hot it was. He was dizzy himself, the ground was shaking a little.

He tapped on another car, the car lurched forward just a little, the car too seemed repulsed by him. The driver was probably cognizant of his employer’s needs and discomfort when approached by street urchins.

The pavement felt hot, and his feet could feel it through his worn sandals. They were discolored now, had been brown before, now had patches of color here and there, had been smooth years ago, now were rubbed, as if they had been created with roughness as the theme.

The ground shook just a little more. He felt his stomach, that was what he did when he realized he would need to work more to get enough for that one roti at Ashfaq’s. He could almost taste the peppered bread. He shook his head, trying to get the thought out of his mind. His stomach grumbled in protest.

He wiped sweat off his brow.

Another car, this one was smaller, this one was kinder. He had noticed that the bigger the car, the more likely that the owner was sitting in the back, and had a chauffeur, the less likely he was going to get anything from it. Especially the ones with tinted windows. The ones whose eyes he could not stare at briefly, demurely. The smaller the car, the more worn down, those people understood, those people gave freely because they understood what it was like, not to be him, but to be in a position where they could be. This was one a small red Maruti. Yes, the window rolled down, the man with the big belly driving the car, with the unpressed shirt with stains on it, that man gave him a smile. And handed him a generously large note.

The ground shook.

He wiped sweat off his brow.

Everything went dark with a thud.