Last night, at the traffic signal, a boy came up to the car. As they often do. With a bunch of jasmine strings. “Take it, for your hair,” he giggled. His eyes, though, were weary.
Yes, I will. Two strings of jasmine. One for you, one for me. One will adorn my hair. Cool my head, too. The other will be my gift to you. For jasmine-scented dreams. For a touch of me with you.
The boy is waiting patiently. The light turns green. We pay him in a flurry. Five rupees. For two sets sets of jasmine dreams.
Who says the price of living has gone up?
