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He watches the dancing water gradually become calm
even as he readies to disturb it again. One callused hand fingers
the smooth, round, flawless surface of the second pebble.
At twenty-eight, his eyes, though still young and sharp, are red
rimmed and hooded with crusty lids and small sparse eyelashes.
At the moment they are narrowed and shielded by his shaggy
eyebrows, puckered and closing ranks together against the
blazing afternoon sun. With the other hand he brushes back a
lock of hair soggy with sweat and moisture from the humid air of
Fatehpur. He knows he must be smelling richly by now. His master
made him work extra hard that morning. Perhaps he can take
a quick dip in the river. His dark skin is sheathed with a sheer
patina of perspiration, the corded muscles making little rivulets
run down the contours of his body. He is wearing only a soiled
loin cloth on his body and nothing else.
Akash shuffles into a more comfortable position, making
shallow furrows into the silt as he squats at the banks of the
stream. The mud leaves thin streaks of grime on his bare, cracked
heels. He is gazing at the undulations of the dirty currents when
he hears his name being called out in the distance.
“Aka-aa-sh! Where has that no good wretch got to Oy!
Akash! What are you doing there wasting time Saheb has more
work for you to do. Come back to the mines at once.”
Hurriedly Akash waggles his fingers in the water in a
half-hearted attempt to wash his hands and gets to his feet. A
steaming pile of feces remains behind; its tip peaked off like an
icecream cone’s. As if on cue, an aeroplane shrieks across the sky
overhead from the airfield nearby, and a flock of birds take flight
in alarm, their squawking adding to the din. Akash glances up
at the sky wistfully, then shakes his head and strides away into
the dark yawning opening that forms the entrance of the mines.
He had his chance years ago. His golden opportunity—in Mr.
Shah’s air freight company. And he blew it. He really ought to
stop dreaming of the heavens. His home is now the bowels of the
74 Writing Tomorrow Magazine