COLOURS
She sold superstition and love. On the streets of Mumbai, she lived, she dreamt, she slept, she worked. Her mornings began with yellow and green. Scanning the cars and rickshaws, she’d head for the open windows, sleepy eyed. She’d sell them hope in a string. They would buy it. Superstition was too cheap to buy, anyway. When the sky was a little red and when wants had been ordered for, from the immortal one, they’d hope other mortals wouldn’t hinder the delivery. Hence the nimbu-mirchi . She’d saunter around looking for the regulars. Hanging the string without a word, taking her change and walking off. With some she’d have to haggle. She always won though. How lower than Rs. 5 can you go anyway? In the evenings, she’d sell some red. She’d look for the alone man or woman who wasn’t lonely. The ones who had a strange smile on their lips. They were easy to spot. They always bought her roses. That’s how she spent her days. It seemed there were only 3 ...