“Who ever bought these things? Why does this market even exist?”
“You love this place.”
“Right. Like I love you? Spot on.”
A boy was selling mini-hookahs on Janpath. She would’ve hated the whole street for the rest of the day had the boy in tattered clothes not come to her, had he not thrown the artsy specimen right in front of her nose, and had he not said in broken english, “Madam, 200 rupees”. Her heart melted at the sight. She brazenly pushed the boy away and grabbed the hookah, clutched in delight herself, sighing her mighty love out. The boy didn’t know what to feel, stuck between taking offense at being manhandled and the prospect of a seemingly certain sale. He eats his ego, forces a smile, and stands there waiting for the money. I, the only one with nothing important to do in this emotionally charged setting, start to take out my wallet, and stop before it can take a peek at the happening world. “40 rupees”, says the businesswoman, devoid of all excitement from the previous, unfinished moment.
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