Cackles of Shame
My little car got some deep scratch on side door and it was in body-shop for last five days. I rode a paddle-rickshaw and the puller was a lean young chap, hardly crossed twenty. I had to catch metro, like old days and spend an hour among strangers, unchartered body-odours and tiny interesting stories. The rickshaw went straight, crossed the bazaar and turned the round island - structured recently and took the road towards metro station. I could see the station at distance, and all kinds of cars, e-rickshaws or paddle rickshaws lined up in front of the entry, and then suddenly the young rickshaw puller screamed, ‘look, look, Africans!’ It took me some time to get into what he was pointing at. I saw nothing except large apartments and a school at one side and a high risen metro line at another. I narrowed down further. I followed the gaze of the young chap, who was clearly amused, as his teeth were outside and eyes were fixed towards a group of people, who were buying milk from