a couple walk, their fourth floor one room set locked behind them. the labourer building the small bridge to cover the naala and to seal the gap between their building's small entrance and the main road does not budge an inch. he picks up after the rubble, slaps a swath of cement paste on the crumble, and flattens it using the back of his tool. the girlfriend's arms tinkle a silvery shine in the peak humid summer scorching noon sun. the labourer's shin glistens with the last droplet of sweat dangling by an invisible thread, waiting to swamp out. the muezzin's call is heard in the close distance. not an echo, as the girl had remembered from her childhood home. sweat breaks on her brows. the couple take the next right towards their cab. a kali temple surfaces waits in the corner, guarded by a makeshift net of mosquitoes. the boyfriend stops, bows his head before the deity muttering a prayer under his breath. the girl has walked past, more sweat collecting on the insides of her elbows. she winces at the sun, flexes her left elbow to see trinkets of sweat collect in the small pool. a sweat pond, she muses and takes her nose close to the sweat. it smells fresh, fresh sweat, the smell of saline, chlorine rich water, she thinks. she has never been to a swimming pool. she looks up, having walked far ahead of the boyfriend, looks back. the boy his head still bowed at a right angle in a tiny prayer, looks meditative, in the middle of a ritualistic prayer. she walks closer up to him. she tugs at the end of her short sleeved kurta, bringing herself to a presentable look for kali. the boys muttering an inaudible prayer, a secret between the deity and her believer. the girl stands, the sight incorrigible to her 2018-millennial eyes. the boy lifts his head up, takes a handkerchief out of his chest pocket and wipes the sweat off the girl's upper lip. the labourer is done making the bridge. the busy bazar ahead of them, the couple cross the road and take a seat in their cab.
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