Through centuries now, a group of people has been consistently marginalized by the rest of the population. These people have been demeaned, ridiculed, humiliated just for being who they are. I am talking of course about ugly people. My kind of people.
When the alarm rang, Mahavir woke up instantly. It was as if he hadn’t slept at all. His throat felt dry and his ears and nose were burning. He pressed the alarm, lifted his blanket gently, and put his feet on the floor, and went to the bathroom.
The room where Mahavir spends his days are quiet, but in his head it has its own tune, a tune that has allowed him to find a vague meaning in life, a tune that unlike everything else in his life has remained unchanged a bit over the years, a tune that has helped him persevere through all the hardships the world had hurled in front of him, a tune, his tune.