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When I met Ghalib

Was it the only time he had to refill himself. Now he had done so, he should not spit on the road. God," these were the immediate thoughts that struck my mind when I asked a rickshaw puller if he could take me to the Ghalib ki Haveli.
"Yes 30 Rs," he said and took out the Shikar paan masala from his shirt-pocket, tore it with his smudgy teeth, held his mouth to sky and poured the gutka into his mouth. His lips brown and sticky.

Fortunately he didn't spit. How could he. The road to the Haveli was choked; the rickshaws, carrying women and men to and fro from the locality overburdened with humans and machines, were cautiously plying on the crowded street. The saliva if the rickshaw puller had ejected from his mouth would probably had fallen onto a burqa-clad lady or the woman who had recently put up a tilak onto his forehead before stepping out of his house and boarding the rickshaw to take some breathe outside the doomed lanes. After around 15 minutes of pedaling, bypas…

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