March pulls in, money season with double lined registers bowing under the weight of numbers – bespectacled, he sits in his stripped shirt counting even the short change. World over countries deal, in larger numbers, over transactions of guns and opium – their little men in dirty corners bowl over, short-changed, looking for short change.

A little change buys a ticket to Maratha Mandir, where lovers cue to see you, you earn in large numbers from their devotion. That man outside your house has been waiting days, for a little change – but of which kind?

Betrayed and bruised, she turns away from that feeling, short-changed. He never deserved her, but she still hopes for change. Her parent’s line outside court, waiting for their robed advocate, to advocate some change, but the man with the hammer, he’s been paid much more than mere change.

Change, change, change – we need change.
This world where at every step we may be short changed.

Truly,
Madame Meow
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