Dedicated to the Rough Mechanic

Dedicated to Certain Fans of the Rough Mechanic 😊

Her sari fluttered in the fan's breeze, revealing her smooth and oh so white ankles and calves. (For this, you see, is a time and place where a Rough Mechanic, and particularly his Hands, may safely - if stealthily - appreciate white calves without fear of being called racist.) The Rough Mechanic Hands descended nervously - as he had thought they might, given all this not-so-subtle audience pressure - on the white calves. The Flower, mistaking the Hands for the chawl cat (why a chawl cat would forage in a vegetarian house with a stingy mistress is altogether another question), grunted, withdrawing the white calves and rearranging her sari grumpily. The Hands deposited themselves hurriedly in the Rough Mechanic's pockets, as he, forgetting his glass of water, retreated, stumbling, into his bedroom. The morning came slowly. One Rough Mechanic Hand, unable to satisfy our hero by fair means or foul, hung over the side of the bed, as he woke droolingly up. The Rough Mechanic made his bleary way down to the one tap that the set designers allowed a chawl crawling with 432 official ration-carded occupants. He felt angry enough to defy all morning-tap screenplay strictures and actually lift up his bucket when it was full, like every other sane person, instead of waiting like an idiot, per usual, for the next chap in line to rebuke him for his lovesick daydreaming. He stared morosely into the middle distance as the water, slow today, trickled reluctantly into his bucket. The Rough Mechanic Hands suffered themselves to be tucked, defeated, into the crook of his elbows, as he stood arms folded, reflecting with some bitterness on his failed nocturnal foray. It was going to be just another more-of-the-same Rough Mechanic day.