4.2

The exchange rate was nearly one hundred to one and Max’s pocket was bulging with a gross wad of rupees when he got hit by the first wave of beggars –

“Help me…”

“Please…help me.”

“No eat…”

They swarmed around him like ravenous insects – human insects. And their effect was immediately gut-wrenching. Without thinking he began handing over notes to this one… and that one… anyone.

“Help me…”

His attention was drawn to the lone man in the group. He looked like he’d been cut in half – there was nothing but a worn stump at the base of his torso. He was paddling an old skate board, trying to get a look in through the swarm of desperate women with pained expressions and dribbling babies –

“Help me…”

Max stopped and waited for the man to slide into full view.

He was razor thin, with a lean, handsome face. He said nothing as Max walked over, peeled a note off the wad, and gave it to him. As it passed between them Max noticed it was a one hundred rupee note – one dollar.

He stole a quick look in the poor man’s eye.

There was a flash of contact – a big smile. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, the man held the note to the sky and gestured to Max in some kind of prayer or blessing…

Max was shocked –

Mate… you should have given more.

4.3

A woman in rags stood at the door of the Hummer, a baby in one arm, her other outstretched hopefully –

“Help me,” she moaned.

B.J. Singh screamed at her –

“Chello!”

Another appeared – he brushed her aside.

Hurling himself inside the Hummer he spoke with strained urgency.

“They are meeting – already.”

He seemed unusually nervous, agitated.