He stretched my patience across.the long wet pull.on a biri and said it'll take time, sir.my hands are full.Why don't you have a glass of tea.while I seal.the puncture inside your flaccid wheel.Motor and compressor.sweating kerosene.a disembowelled Ceat tube.converted by a keen.blue knife, aplomb and a grin.into a giant rubber foreskin.vanishes inside.the thick truck tyre.Tista flexes muscle.through the iron dusk.truckers talk in low tones.manly, brusque.Along the black valley.a myopic jeep.carefully skirts a Tata.grunting in its sleep..By the tottering tyre-shop.loafers hang around.jaundiced by the petromax.spellbound.in secret admiration.at the prestidigitation.by Kumar.of Kumar Tyres.On the scourged hill,.above the far bank.the mud closes fingers.liquid, lank.over skull-coloured boulders.fallen from the shoulders.of the road to Danny's brewery.Insects creep creep.creep as three lights vie:.neon, the petromax.and the crepuscular sky.by the river a mournful fox.concedes.the moon has risen behind.what's left of the trees..Tista at Malli —.not a pleasant sight.even when muted.by the seeping night.I can sit and watch the ballet, though.of rubber and the steel.and the man who resuscitates.my motorcycle wheel.
