This was my first client for the evening. I would search for more of them and go home in the morning. Then my other life would begin. I had the apple in my bag. It would mean more to my children than the money. It was however the money that had more importance to me. I would remember this man for the apple. I was not likely to see him again. But how could I be so sure? Fate? Destiny? We are all travellers on the ocean of samsara. Perhaps I might meet him in another birth. The morning arrived. The city was coming awake. The sleepers huddled outside the Fort Railway Station were getting up, folding their clothes, preparing to move on. I was dragging my feet along the street looking forward to the journey home. A woman, a casual passerby, told me that a man had died near First Cross Street and the body was lying there. Why should she have told me this news? Did she think I would be curious about the body of a dead man? Why should I have been? I have no feelings towards anyone except my children. All bodies are the same to me. They are not gods whom I had worshipped before in any sanctum. I wouldn’t place garlands round their necks. Or bend to wash the dust off their feet. I cannot name the fathers of my children. They had come. They had gone. Perhaps I have been widowed several times over. There is no man in my life for whom I will ever again cook a meal. I have no love for men. But they become providers even without being conscious of the fact. I ought to feel some gratitude towards them. They beat me up sometimes. Rage at me. Their abuse heaps up like garbage about me. I have learnt to live with that rage because to me it is only a passing storm. I know I can disarm them even if they pull out their daggers and threaten me simply by offering them my bag with the money in it. They have to leave me. They have to go on their way and sometimes are destroyed by the very violence they themselves generate. But I am tough too. My degradation gives me strength. I have nothing to lose. At twenty-six I know all things that are necessary for survival. An independent woman earning her own living and supporting three children. One day, if I live long enough—and I know the dangers attached to my profession—I will give my daughters in marriage respectably, and then earn my rest. Perhaps my son will earn enough to tell me, ‘Mother, stay at home. You’re weary. You’ve struggled for us long enough. I’ll go out and get any job.’ Yes, I must admit I’m worn out already. I am afraid of getting pregnant again. Then what will I do for a living? I never want to put my children up for adoption. Life is this long weary passage. I cannot see any light at the end of it. Treading these sordid streets night after night. The dust, the mud, slush, churned up by myriads of walking feet. Piles of rubbish heaped up everywhere. Scavenging dogs, lean, gaunt city cats. Piles of fruit, pineapples, mangoes. Apples sprinkled with water for freshness or polished with a piece of grimy rag. Oranges which look tempting and fresh on the surface but inside are black and spoilt. Grapes that grow sour and fermented.