The dead man’s son held up the casket. We’ve seen him so many times on the road, dragging his father away from yet another bottle and yet another fight. Is that relief I see? A dead man is easier to take away.
Then the rain comes. A drizzle at first. Handbags open. Umbrellas come out. The men pick up the pace. Then a shower. Slowly, but with increasing swiftness, Maradana is transformed. Not many can stand music of the raindrops.
Picture a dark alley. Then picture something smaller, but with the same atmosphere, for it would be an exaggeration to call this this place an alley.
Malu-O! he cries, breaking through the silence. He doesn’t have a degree in Marketing. What he has is a loud voice and a tireless back.
He will remember this moment forever, even in death; the lonely station under the grey dawn; the cold, barren wind playing with the trees; the soft stink of the train, an undercurrent of sweat and tears.