© A Mixed Bag
The blue van pulls along the kerb and parks in the shade of the giant Peepal.
Eight eager feet jump out on the cobbled pathway.
“Stick to the path. Your soles will be caked in mud”, the elderly advice floats around.
“The GPS shows we are on the right track, Mom. Can’t spot ‘Mutt’s breakfast cereals’.
Their website says ‘Open’; Johnny announces.
“There”, I point out at the end of the annex's wall decorated with Indian Ivy on it.
The Gandhi spectacles behind the counter is dozing off.
I bang the glass counter top thrice to awaken the bald head.
The pot-belly with suspenders stirs.
The sleepy dilated pupils stare at Johnny.
Johnny stares back amused.
“I want a carton of Pedigree Pouch Chicken for my son. He has been a good boy this
week” and the figure behind the counter shifts his bewildered gaze upward at me.
“Your son?”, and he gapes at me.
Two tiny muddy prints appear on the glass counter and a face emerges above the counter.
“Woof woof”, wagging his tail.
“My son”, I clarify to the man behind the counter.
written for : Sunday Photo Fiction July 9th 2017
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Peepal - An Indian tree.