He spends seven days a week here at the train station. Even if only one person in a hundred lets him carry their bags there are thousands every hour. They pay five rupees, maybe ten; it doesn’t add up to enough for a family of four. The girl stays home, the boy begs here and plays with the other beggars. Sometimes he brings home the most.

He takes a long rest midmorning. No he doesn’t read the paper, he swats flies that pester his slow healing incision. He has sold a kidney. With time off for recovery, chewing too much Paan for the pain, the money hadn’t lasted long enough. Traffickers have approached him about his daughter. On the other hand he could wait the two months more before she becomes twelve and then sell her kidney. There’s such a good price on a young kidney, maybe enough to pay off that money lender, or have him killed.

Like a thief I slipped into my garden
through a crack in the wall.
I stole roses and jasmine from my own garden. Rumi

George's selection of 66 Phlogs is available in print from People's Press.

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