Detritus
by Eric Freedman
Her tattered dress flutters from the flurry of her stick legs dashing out to meet my cab. She waves her hand in a circular motion and yells something I can't hear. Grease and cinder smears scar her face. Her fingernails are thick with black soot, her teeth brown-blotched.
When her cutesy smile doesn't open my window, her face morphs into a pity-me frown. Urging me with erratic movements and a mix of sweet and sour expressions, she implores, cajoles, wheedles, whines. In the middle of a pained gesture, her head snaps to look at the Bombay traffic officer who's just blown his whistle to signal the cars to go. Her eyes boom one last "Please" before the cab pulls away and leaves her in a cloud of diesel and dust.
She shifts her bare feet on black pavement, then darts after my cab. Her feet smack hot road, soft flesh stomping rock and debris. Among the throng of trucks and rickshaws runs this little girl, her brown face fixed on bringing back some coins for her family. I wonder how long she can keep up.
Scattered red lights flash, vehicles freeze in traffic. She races up and repeats her frantic waving. I crank the rusted metal handle and the window moves an inch. Her eyes seem about to explode. She watches the window as it moves another inch and jams. I reach for some rupees to pass through the top. Too late. The traffic clears, the cab rolls. She tries to keep up, but is at last obscured by the rush of busses and cars closing in around her.