I was hugging one end of the over-bridge. She was running up at top speed, expecting everyone to get out of her path. I didn’t react in time, she collided with me, sent my book flying.
Something snapped in me. I grabbed her, demanded to know why she was not carrying a white stick to proclaim that she was blind.
She didn’t understand what the fuss was about. She had a train to catch.
“Is that your train?”, I hissed. “I’ll make sure you miss it.”
And I did.
What is it about Bombay that dehumanises us to this extent?