Notes on Gettting Robbed in the Land of Ghandi
Robert Hirschfield finds no easy answers when attacked by bad villagers in India. Image: Shayan I THOUGHT THEY were praying. What else would they be you do in farming West Bengal, hands pulpy palm to palm in a moonlight? This was India, after all. But a quarrel of group slung opposite a road left us no room to pass. we was too busy hoarding a night smells of ponds to be distressed at first. we dont drive a car, or mostly ride in one, so inhabiting a vehicle puts me in an odd state of retirement from a world. Vinay, 26, brings solar energy to farming villages, as well as we move my squares of writing paper. What did these gentlemen bring, hands fallen to their sides now, bodies dire against potion as well as metal? In their loose white trousers, a face of a night was darker than it had been a minute ago. Their spokesmans voice was tense, not indignant exactly, but hold by an indignant shade which hold me. Vinays car was suddenly a burble in between villages. And we was a hive of tingly...
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