By Hamza Arshad

‘Well, again you are here’, Rom Roared, ‘I thought you were gone to some other ditch’. ‘No’, Dom shouted, ‘your wish is mockery of justice.’ Then he cleared his throat and said, ‘I was almost dead with disease’. ‘You often remain ill’, said Rom, putting his bony hand on his shoulder.

Now his tone was less roaring.

‘Things are not pure’ complained Dom.

‘Yah’ nodded Rom, ‘So much pesticide, urea, cobalt, arsenic and heaven of other things are mixed in our food.  We are almost dying out’.

‘You are right’, agreed Dom, ‘some 100 years ago, availability was scant, but superb taste and healthy drink. A hellish joy was to sip in the dusky eve of December when food was picked in Lonesome groves or dark streets’. Then he displayed his white and long teeth.

Suddenly Rom hushed him. Both of them looked at a straggler in the lonesome street. ‘This is mine’, Roared Rom, ‘you can wait for the next one’ and he moved like lightning.

Mr. Robert was late as his bike tyre got flattened and he had to drag it alongwith, cursing and grumbling. Suddenly a cold wave of fright ran through his spine. Unnatural dread was looming around. His mouth opened wide to utter a frightful shriek but could not. A bony hand gagged him and two teeth sank in his neck.