Mithun Mukherjee hails from New Delhi, India. He has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember and often wonders if he can still make a writer out of himself. He has previously published Cold Feet, a collection of dark fiction short stores and Revenge, a novella. His shorts have been published in The Four Quarterly Literary Magazine (online), Morpheus Tales (UK), Crossed & Knotted (print) and the soon to be published Rudraksh (print). He writes from time to time at http://www.mithunmukherjee.in and answers e-mails at firstname.lastname@example.org .
“Please, for the love of God, give a young boy some alms! God has been merciful to you, share your blessings with the poor! I have a sister to look after, a mother who is sick and a wound which needs medicines!”
The young boy holds up a dirty hand wrapped in soiled bandages, looking into the tinted window of a car. His hair is matted, the color of ash. Streaks of dirt run like rivers on his face. He removes the support of his good hand, letting the bandaged arm drops down limply like a dead fish. Dangling it, he moves on to the next car. His feet make a grating noise, resulting in a few noses around him to wrinkle up in disgust.
“Fill the stomach of a hungry soul and the One Above shall look down upon you with kindness! I haven’t eaten in three days, my father will beat me up if I don’t get money! Have a heart, oh, please have a heart!”
The people in the car see moving lips that belong to a street urchin. They turn their faces and look the other way. The air conditioner helps block out the heat and poverty.
The light turns green and the cars are off. The boy comfortably wades through the speeding traffic and waits on the pavement. He spots a motorcycle rider cursing on the edge of the road. He has a flat.
“This way. Follow me.”