Tiny Story #6

FOREIGNER:

Thomas did not blend in with the locals in the least. He was more than a head taller than anyone else. The rich dark skin of Mumbai’s inhabitants contrasted sharply with his fair countenance. He clearly did not belong, so the men and women hawking their wares along Fashion Row would raise their prices at least a thousand percent whenever he entered one of the makeshift booths. He haggled and argued over the marked up prices until the vendor would simply cross his arms and look off to the side like Thomas no longer existed. When he turned to leave the man called him back and with a heaviness, as though it would cost him his shop, he would concede to a price that Thomas knew was still five times more than a local would pay. But he had settled on a set of glass bangles and a pair of glass earrings with countless beads dangling from a beaded triangle. He thought his girlfriend would like them. Maybe he could drag a pardon out with them. He wanted to get out of the throng. The press of unknown faces was too much. Every time he looked down there were children reaching up with cupped hands, faces contorted in pained yearning for just one rupee. He saw a woman with a baby that was sleeping in her arms, but when she caught him looking at her she pinched the infant and it started to wail as she quickly approached him and gestured with one hand toward her mouth. She twisted her face into a look of someone not having eaten in days. She placed her hand out for a donation. She had the most amazingly white teeth Thomas had ever seen and they were perfectly straight. All of them had those teeth. Beggars, merchants, businessmen, it didn’t matter. Perfectly straight smiles could be seen wherever he looked. The woman pushed her hand toward him again after pinching the infant a second time. Thomas quickly looked away and made a sharp right toward the road where he flagged down one of the countless yellow and black auto-rickshaws, which was essentially just a three-wheeled moped with a shell over the top. He clambered in.

“Carter Road,” he said, slightly breathless and more than a bit overwhelmed. The driver waved his head slightly and set out to force a path through the ever-present traffic, making his way east. Honking the high-pitched horn incessantly. It seemed to be more habit than anything else. Everyone was honking, but unlike New York, nobody yelled and swore at anybody else. It was all the daily routine as poverty stricken beggars squatted on corners, mongrels skulked in alleyways and merchants plied their goods, crying out over the din “Chaaaaai BabbaChai!” or “Lemonorrraaaaange!” and countless other phrases that Thomas did not understand. The rickshaw reached Carter Road and Thomas tossed the driver two hundred rupees and hopped out. He had to run across the street to the promenade to avoid the cars and rickshaws that caromed down the road, heedless of pedestrians. When he set foot on the wide tiles that overlooked the Arabian Sea, Thomas let out a long breath. The tide was low and the pocked rocks stretched out hundreds of feet before him. He did not venture out but rather leaned against the waist-high wall and sipped the milk from a fresh coconut that no doubt came from one of the many palms across the street. He gazed out toward the water until he saw an aging man walk out toward the water. When the man was nearly to the edge he pulled his pants down and squatted over a small pool, heedless of the numerous people walked up and down the coastline. Thomas could not help but grimace. He did not belong.

Tags: Tiny Stories