The round-faced boy in tattered shorts is ten at most, but he wields his little stick-broom in an offhandedly grand manner. Squatting on the dusty kerb at the edge of the dusty road, he squints at the passing traffic. To either side of him, a patch of pavement clear of dust extends a little farther than the length of his arms. A stray dog making to venture into this dust-free realm is sternly shooed away with the little emperor’s broom sceptre.

The boy’s sandals are of the cheapest kind, but their straps are coloured golden.

hazy morning
a truck squeezes past
the camel cart