'postcard'

it was after six in the evening, the sky was that yellow it gets sometimes that can make you feel sickly and pale and remind you of books you read as a child that scared you. walking past the kala ghoda steps where some people lay taking naps and a few kids smoked cigarettes, i met a boy who really likes postcards. i didn't see him first, i saw his postcards first. many of them, hand made, tacked to small cardboard sheets suspended around the pavement. i had never seen so many postcards in one place before. many pictures with small stories in pink and green ink, dancing around the empty pavement, all lit up yellow. he was behind me and when he looked up to see who was looking at his postcards, i looked up to see who was looking at me. i wiped my toes on the back of my skirt. he said he really liked postcards. i said i could tell. why? i asked. he said, because they force you to be honest. i wasn't sure what he meant. he said he liked pavements too. but it surprised him how such few people notice when you put pictures around a pavement. he said most people walk with their eyes staring at the ground, no one has seen my postcards yet i think. i said, why don't you put them on the ground. all the yellow of the sky lit up inside his face. that's brilliant, he said. i laughed and curled my toes and said, no it's silly. he said, here, take my postcards. but you must pay for them, i made them to receive a payment for them. i paid him sixteen rupees and took four postcards. he smiled, thank you, i'll think of you every time someone remembers to look up he said with a ripped pocket. then that is not so often, i thought.