Style No. 14: The Subjective Side

Style No. 14: The Subjective Side

I was rocking this orange t-shirt, which I have to say was pretty awesome, and I had a whistle too. It wasn’t the finest whistle I’d ever seen, but it worked. As I thought about it, I was grateful for that. A boy needs a whistle.

Chhotu had his arm wrapped around me, which was sticky from the heat, and he was pretending to look off at the crowd. But I knew he was just buttering me up so I’d give him a turn. Poor guy. Had whistle envy, and bad too.

This old lady passed by, looking like she was about to burst into tears, and with some funny thing jammed up under her shawl. Why are there so many sad people in this town? Aren’t we supposed to be on a pilgrimage?

I haven’t seen him yet, but behind me I can smell this dour old bugger. There’s plenty of them around here, so I recognize it now — the aroma. Like stale smoke. Normally I can feel their eyes burning a hole in my back, too. But not this one. He must know something. Must be looking off the other way. Hopeless, these folks. Don’t they know a ten-rupee whistle is all you need to remedy your sorrows?

New York was a blast. Hell, being on top of a building was a blast. Come to think of it, taking photos was a blast too. This blast dates from 2010.

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