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Sighing, he leaned against the wall. Midday, and he was exhausted. Even if he finished his rounds early, there was nowhere to go—from nine a.m. to nine p.m. he had rented his room to a mill-worker on night shift. Doomed to roam the streets, Ibrahim occupied park benches, sat on bus-shelter stiles, sipped a glass of tea at a corner stall till it was time to return home and sleep in the mill-worker’s smell. This was life? Or a cruel joke? He no longer believed that the scales would ever balance fairly. If his pan was not empty, if mere was some little sustenance in it for his days and nights, it
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