The City Moves On

Kasab never stopped moving. The docks stayed busy through the night, loading and unloading goods. The markets opened before sunrise, filled with voices bargaining, arguing, living. It was a city where no one stood still.

Malik had become part of it.

His days were the same—work at the mechanic's shop, football in the evenings, and nights spent in his small rented room. He spoke little, listened more. He didn't care for the stories men told over drinks, but he heard them anyway. Stories about the Shetty gang, about Rizwan Bhai, about things that happened in the dark corners of Kasab.

None of it had anything to do with him.

One afternoon, as he was fixing a car outside the shop, a man walked up. Well-dressed, with rings on his fingers and a cigarette between his lips. He wasn't from this part of the city.

"Where's Jaggu?" the man asked.

Malik wiped his hands on a rag. "Inside."

The man nodded, flicked his cigarette to the ground, and walked in.

Minutes later, Malik heard raised voices. He didn't turn, didn't listen too closely. When the man left, Jaggu stood in the doorway, his face unreadable.

Malik didn't ask questions. He knew better.

Kasab had its own way of dealing with things.

And Malik? He was just another worker, watching from the sidelines.