Just another statistic
Ram didn’t remember too much about his village back in Maharashtra except for the face of his mother at sleep, the day that he’d decided to escape. The sparsely occupied room had stood mute while he packed a small rucksack of his torn shorts and shirts, two of them. As the sun rose, Ram was sitting atop a generous bullock cart which would take him to the nearest bus station 50 km away. 12 years passed, during which he had never written to his mother, he had never learnt how to. His only link back home was two hundred rupees that he sent her every month, without fail. The money might bring a smile to her face and tell her that all was well with her son. A Sunday evening when he had finished delivering all the courier letters, Ram stood next to the sea. He loved doing this, as among the thousands of people who thronged there Sunday evening, he was anonymous. He was not the son of the farmer who lost hope and committed suicide; he was not the brother of two sisters who had been married o...