The sparrow on the window pane seemed to be the only commonality between the high rise and the slum, thought Manas in his air-conditioned chamber.
He remembered that some fifteen years back, this high rise too was a flowing neat river.
Several cities and educational degrees later, the time had canonized him back to this direction.
It was a difficult decision for his family and him to move their belongings in their bullock cart from the village, that now was a bustling city.
They did, and so did their lives, like the wheels of the cart that rainy night.
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| Wheels of Time |
This post is author’s entry to Five Sentence Fiction.
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