The other day, I found Babu Lal, the old dhobi, looking very moody as he went about his work. It was sweltering and he was in a shack with a plastic roof, ironing clothes with his ancient coal iron, but even so, he looked more despondent than usual. Was everything well, I asked. At first he said it was. He had just returned from his village in Uttar Pradesh, he said. Just then his son arrived on his motorcycle, wearing skinny jeans and a snazzy pair of shades. Something seem to snap quite visibly in the old dhobi’s head, and
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