The toilet sweepers of the Bangalore malls are the cleaners of the mess that I am leaving behind. Wiping the arrogance of a man who carries a stack of cash and cards; so that the diligent SOBs can marry well; their sons may someday come to the malls in a car.
I will tell my sons not to trust them.
By then, my boys will grow up to be the savers of whales, the empathizers, the artists, the angels of the world. And money will be mute.
The sweepers’ sons will get down to see the servant bots have come forward with marigold garlands to greet, and to clean after them. The glistening light reflecting against their translucent blue armours will blind the sons so bright that they will forget that the bots are wearing now their fathers’ all wither skin.