The dog of small things

The saree rags are torn to further shreds ,like enemy country’s flags. The sun was a round bright light in the sky till a while ago but not hot yet. A spring breeze blew on the stillness of the road.

There was no dog today, the famished one. The one with its ribs sticking out. The dog of small things on the road. Nor the one who had squatted by me two days ago and followed my pantleg all the way home. Yesterday the rich Alsatian in the high security house continuously shouted from the hollow of its throat. There are rich dogs, poor dogs.

But now I see a rag picker scrounging around for small things. He has a canvas bag on his back. He is an underdog of small things.


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