Orphanage life

Whenever we retreat from playing with the children, when the heat overwhelms our senses in a hue of drowsiness, there are little craned necks and expectant faces gazing after us for the hope of perhaps our hasty return with a new game to play. Once inside, I sit on the edge of my bed to rest, but soon the disappointed souls find themselves aimlessly outside our door, ushering a reluctant tile down an echoing corridor by foot. The scraping sound of man-made fun sounds like dragging feet- alternate amusement smothered with expectancy- expectancy remedied as the gong is chimed as a routinely symbol of food. The little faces, now spirited again, beckon us with a real incentive as if they believe their small beings aren’t incentive enough. We go to eat, a crowd parts for us to fill our metal trays first, trays dented with the scraping of fingers tirelessly labouring to fill their hungry stomachs with foraged remains. And so our hearts and stomachs are filled once again and the lonely tile forgotten somewhere between the heaving of the calf out of the relentless monsoon rain and the late-night star gazing.

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