Impressions of a Picture
I was walking alone on a street in downtown Bombay at dusk. I had just turned the corner when I saw him standing there. I was taken aback; should I turn and run? A man who could steal from his own family and leave his children to starve can do anything, can’t he? He looked so calm and sad that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. He seemed to be penniless, and so he should be. Serves him right, miserable bastard! He’s probably feeling sorry for himself, too. He ought to be hung; it’s times like these when I start to reconsider “an eye for an eye.” I realized I had been staring at him, I knew not for how long. The fear began to gnaw at me again. How dangerous would he be, now that he had nothing? It took all my courage to look away and walk briskly on. After all, it was no concern of mine; I had my own problems to worry about. I still had to figure out how to dispose of my wife’s body.
