Bihar Gaya

 My name is Gopal.
I was born in a shanty town.
Some kilometers from the Gaya junction station. Raised on cheap cuts of meat and root vegetables in soups. I may describe my life as hard. It was, but it was also sometimes joyous.
I used to tip toe near my mother's bed at night, just to hear her quiet snore.
Sitting down on her bedside mat. Thinking about what I might have to trade tomorrow.
How I might have to hussle between the train station stalls.
I'd nod off there on that mat, wake shortly before she did. Then go back to my rustic hay mattress bed.
During most days of the year the sun was aggressive. Rain came for weeks during equinoxes. We were forced to collect that rain water in buckets. We would cover the buckets and rationt he water.
In the shanty town we were known a Yadav family, originally cow herders. Of course now merchants. Cow herders hardly existed anymore. However the clothes shop that my mother ran gave us scarcely what we needed.  
I walked through the stalls in the lat monday morning bustle. The sun tyrranical. The blue sky slightly gray with the tinge of pollution. I noticed the tiny holes that had appeared in my shoes this month, a centimeter or so of fat no longer around the bottom of my abdomen.
I looked at the jewelry people were selling on the street.
Candy and gadgets but nothing I could afford. So I picked up the two essential ingredients wheat and sweet potato.

Everyday I made my way through the streets and sea of tarpoulin stalls. Motivated by the thought of my mother selling her clothes, and being able to sleep next to her bed on those lonely nights just to listen to her subtle snore. Whatever came to me beyond that, and many things did