Kangleimaichou

The scorching summer of north India: in his brown Bermudas and TheNorthface hiking boots he stood at the door of the university office with his bulging rucksack standing on its own as though it was having a good time in its detached state. This tall man in his late twenties held a slightly crumpled sheet bearing his own handwriting, stapled at the top and below was another sheet, lined and it bore a letter written by him, explaining the reason why he was late: the flight was delayed for one whole day in Moscow; perhaps one of those erratic airliners. Every now and then he moved his head to glance at the papers, his attention wasn’t in the bulging rucksack. He said he had been waiting for Mr. Sindhe for an hour; he needed the man’s signature to go to the immigration office where the enforcers would ‘push through’ his documents, and if granted, his stay would be rather smooth.  But Mr. Sindhe was not the kind of man who would display his empathy, he was a man who knew quite well ...