Part seven of short story titled, “A Love Story?”
Scraggly growing brown hairs, a beard that needed a visit to the barber and clothes that were torn and cheap. I’m not trying to be racist but I had seen my fair share of rag-pickers who looked better than Raju did. And yet I chose his rickshaw to reach the home of one of my contacts. I can justify it saying he was the closest one to the metro or his rickshaw was first in line. But I’ll be lying in both the cases.
I chose to travel by Raju’s rickshaw because he was the only rickshaw puller whose rickshaw wasn’t modified into a battery operated one. I’m not going to sit on top of a battery, no matter how much you advocate its safety standards. It was the only conventional rickshaw, you know the one they drive, ride or whatever the term is there…
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