Kanjam Bhat Lidhoo’s story is a peek into the human mindset where the thin line of demarcation between blind beliefs and logic turns hazy.
‘Namaskar – Namaste!’ Rajinder said. He was a short man of stocky build, his shoulders heaving heavily over his thin breast, proceeded by a large, swelling belly, curtained by a blue checkered shirt. He wore a mild scar across his right cheek, the result of a sports injury he had suffered in a game of soccer when he was merely a boy of thirteen. His hair had thinned at the crown, but was flowing menacingly at his temples – knots of black and thin white hair webbed together in a state of urgency, wedded indissolubly.
‘Namaste,’ Sanjay replied. He stood over six feet tall, his arms thin, petulant, his belly flat and nestled under the warm embrace of a crimson red corduroy shirt. He wore a dark set of pants, perfectly ironed. His face wore a peculiar frown, giving him a look of turbulent confusion. Below his nose, he fashioned a menacing mustache, curtaining his upper lip. Above, his hair flowed dark and dense, swaying gently in the childish breeze of an October afternoon.
‘So, what brings you here today?’ Rajinder asked.