Mangoes. So full, so sweet, so scented, the oranges and yellows of sunlight.
For I am the one who decides where our campaign will take us. A rider can only journey where his horse conveys him.
You do not kill, I remind him. You just send them to a less ignoble birth. sweep down your sword, and let them be born away.
As he watched the grime from his body swirl across the tile and vanish into the drain, he tried to think of a day when water would flow just as freely for the residents of Dharavi.
Wasn't medicine, ultimately a matter of faith? Faith that the doctor knew what they were diagnosing, faith that their prescriptions would make you whole, faith that the tablet dissolving in your mouth would cure you, not kill you.