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Shudra
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Tiffin Term Analysis |
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Malik lived somewhere inside one of the many buildings that made up the Pink City. I had never asked whether he had a sibling, a mother or a father. It was enough that he and I were together ten hours a day and that he hauled my tiffins, flagged down rickshaws and tongas, haggled with suppliers. We shared confidences, of course, like the look of impatience he'd given me today when our last client kept us waiting an hour.
I placed three rupee coins in his palm, after making him promise he would buy real food for his dinner instead of greasy snacks. “You’re a growing boy,” I reminded him, as if he weren't aware of it. He grinned and took off like a top, whining his way between shoppers toward the bright lights.