His skinny jeans are skinny, he could not get his phone out of his pocket. He probably weighs 80 pounds wet. His legs are thinner than my arms. It almost hit the hundreds today and the humidity is high, he is wearing a sweater with green and white stripes that whisper Abercrombie and Stitched. His feet are bare with toes pointed out when he peddles his bicycle rickshaw.
I grabbed an hour out of the house and rushed to Dal Mundi to get some girlie clothe for dresses for the ever growing Zana. My return rickshaw driver loved potholes and singing. I felt sort of like a lover taking a ride in Venice with a singing gondolier. Except I was alone, I was not in Venice and I was not in a gondola. He sang through the beetle juice bazaar, through the meat market where the leftovers of the morning beef was hanging out in the sun drawing flies, he sang past the glitter stores where buttons of all sizes are sold for peanuts and past the local buffalo stables. We still had awhile to go at our pedestrian pace so after yet another group of men turning to stare I quietly said, "Your voice has a beautiful sound but I am a Westerner and everyone stares. When you sing they stare more and so please maybe you could not sing?"
He stopped his cheerful song and then launched into a litany of why my request spoke of what a modest woman I am and how his beautiful singing does attract attention. We carried on till we reached men grouped around a sewage hole. Crouched around the hole in nothing but loin clothes they were talking to an invisible man deep down in the hole. Black ooze lay on the ground beside them. As we passed they hollered out to me. My skinny man huffing and puffing to get me home jumped at their indiscretion. Loosely translated they are just poor cretins.
I arrived home clutching my cloth and grinning with delight at being alive in a city where I get singing transportation home. Do you sing at your work?
I grabbed an hour out of the house and rushed to Dal Mundi to get some girlie clothe for dresses for the ever growing Zana. My return rickshaw driver loved potholes and singing. I felt sort of like a lover taking a ride in Venice with a singing gondolier. Except I was alone, I was not in Venice and I was not in a gondola. He sang through the beetle juice bazaar, through the meat market where the leftovers of the morning beef was hanging out in the sun drawing flies, he sang past the glitter stores where buttons of all sizes are sold for peanuts and past the local buffalo stables. We still had awhile to go at our pedestrian pace so after yet another group of men turning to stare I quietly said, "Your voice has a beautiful sound but I am a Westerner and everyone stares. When you sing they stare more and so please maybe you could not sing?"
He stopped his cheerful song and then launched into a litany of why my request spoke of what a modest woman I am and how his beautiful singing does attract attention. We carried on till we reached men grouped around a sewage hole. Crouched around the hole in nothing but loin clothes they were talking to an invisible man deep down in the hole. Black ooze lay on the ground beside them. As we passed they hollered out to me. My skinny man huffing and puffing to get me home jumped at their indiscretion. Loosely translated they are just poor cretins.
I arrived home clutching my cloth and grinning with delight at being alive in a city where I get singing transportation home. Do you sing at your work?
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