The short story follows the reaction of a quintessential, Indian neighborhood to a killing, brought to you through the eyes of one of its most generic members – A Shoe-shiner.
Calcutta, Independent India
The skies were clear on that particular day, quite unusual during that time of the year. Visually, it could compete with any mid-summer day and triumph hand over fist. The gentle winds politely pushed the clouds ever so slightly, every few seconds. The weather threw tantrums and was as fickle as an English summer. Some days were gloomy, other days, bright as ever. Lately, the weather was growing increasingly unpredictable, almost like a roll and dice game. The old quarters, however, remained busy irrespective of the outcome of the dice.
“Aye, you heard the news? A man’s body has been found in our swamps.” Amused, he continued, “Our city is also developing, no?” he and his moustache laughed in unison.