Amriah Malik shut the gate and went into the alley behind his home. It was Monday afternoon, and Amrish was in a sweat. From the heat mainly—the temperature was 112 degrees outside—but also from his singular troubles. He’d just returned from a trip to New York and was trying to find the mental quiet needed to resolve the difficult matter at hand. As Amrish ambled through the alley, dust clinging to his sweaty skin, he debated whether or not to go ahead with his plan: it was still possible to reverse course. As he deliberated, he was suddenly struck in the face by something. He watched the missile as it fell to the ground, crumbling.
What Amrish saw horrified his brahmin sensibility, which had become even more fastidious after nine years in America. Dogshit! Luckily the excrement had hardened and hadn’t left any visible trace. Even so, Amrish absolutely had to rush home to bathe. But first he cursed, then glared about, trying to ascertain from where the flying feces had been thrown.
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