Portraits of Heat

Everyday objects hold in themselves a multitude of stories, each telling of the climate change exasperated divide between the haves and have-nots of the world.

- Karan Mujoo

THERE'S a boy. The boy has no legs. He pushes his wheelchair in the molten heat. As the sun punishes us for our industrial sins the boy moves his wheelchair - a product of those industrial sins - towards a kiryana store. Life is cruel, but the boy has a smile on his face. He picks up a small clay pot and empties it. A few drops of water hit the pavement and evaporate immediately. He gesticulates to the shopkeeper who brings a packet of milk. The boy hands him a grimy, sweaty 10 rupee note. The wheelchair rolls, the tyre leaving a black rubber trail on the concrete.

'Come here Kaalu, the boy says.

A street dog with a black fur coat staggers to him, stunned by the heat. The boy in the wheelchair bites into the cool packet and rips out a triangular section.

The milk pours into the claypot. Nectar. An oblation to the brutal sun god. Kaalu bends his neck greedily and starts lapping up the milk. I go to the boy and we talk about the unrelenting heat. He talks about it only with respect to the animals around us. As if the heat does not bother him.

"The birds are dropping dead like flies,' he says matter-of-factly.