…a frail, sari clad mother driving back her 12 year old tired son in grubby white cricket gear on her activa with the green cricket kit balanced in between them, its zipper broken midway, the gloves torn at the fingertips, the bat as precariously hanging outside the kit as their outsized improbable un-uncommon dreams, both carrying the weight of the dream as easily as the weight of that activa which they wouldn’t even be able to kickstart on their own. We know which fuel makes it possible for them to drive the activa much heavier than themselves, but which fuel drives the dream?

…as precariously as the drape of the first year college girl attired in mom’s chiffon beige sari, worn on tie-and-sari-day in college pinned to the backless blouse hastily altered by the tailor, all trust on that one safety pin, the one device which has never let women down, subtly conscious of the visible transparent bra strap, not yet at an age where she is sure whether it is a fashion statement or a stupid act she has never attempted before, having bought her first such undergarment for the event, unsure whether her future self will mock her modesty or enjoy her discomfort. An unknown rush of adrenaline at the heady looks she is getting from the clumsy boys in poorly knotted ties and shirts too loose for the event.

…the same rush of adrenaline at the sight of the neck of the partner as her head bobs up and down, up and down his dick, her mop of curly hair leaving to your imagination an image that she is enjoying herself terribly the way the women in porn movies do, with wide eyed pleasure, when in reality, she is just waiting to get it over with so that the real act can begin, too involved already for revulsion at the pubic hair seeping in her mouth.

…the similar revulsion killed by monotony of the man who rides an enfield to work and works out to keep those muscles in tone in his leisure time, when he is not separating dry waste from wet, his hands nonchalantly drawing into people’s dust bins to pull out diapers and the discarded stumps of raw vegetables and untying grittily knotted plastic bags before dumping yesterday’s uneaten daal from them into the wet bin, his mind somewhere else, dissociated from his sticky but properly manicured fingers with which he wipes on a rag occasionally. The most comforting and disheartening statement that can make you do anything at all from getting fucked in your anus to ordering the gassing of a million Jews to cleaning the shit of the elderly parents if it turns into an insight is – It’s a job.

…the unending queue of able bodied men with blank faces, and tiny lunch boxes in neat cloth, sometimes eagerly waiting the slowing down of your car like whores in a seedy area in your city, only these men are looking for something to do with their day that can give them a meal for the day while they hammer away at construction sites or repair your bathroom for you or carry bags of cement on their back, each face merging into another, everyone unrecognizable from the platonic labourer face which stares at the boys and girls nervously laughing in the tie and sari day celebrations.

… the man who sees nothing of any of the above while he walks, his mind somewhere else, at a memory of a kinky phrase that stirs something in his dick which manifests as a unilateral grin.