Shama Futehally


The auto-rickshaw swayed and jerked over the rubble. It stopped at the end of the lane, in a kind of open undefined area with at pile of garbage to the side. Pigs nosed and shuffled, grunting peacefully. Also in the pile stood two small boys, shock-haired with dust, dressed in tattered shorts. They held long hooked sticks and were jabbing them at the larger bits of paper in the garbage. Then they would flick the paper expertly into open gunny-bags which were lying on the road. Behind them rose the familiar thick green of a mosque's dome.



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