She had something of the feeling a Hindoo must experience who has been into surroundings or touched something that offends his caste. He had grabbed her in the stream, embracing her naked body tightly, running his hands over her breasts and clutching her buttocks. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. There was—a service. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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