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Where My Shadow Runs

By Roshan Tara


Every morning, I sweep dust outside the tea stall.

The school gate is right across.

Kids laugh and run in, holding their mums’ and dads’ hands.

They wear shiny shoes and smell like soap and tiffin.

I just smell like chai and smoke.

Uncle says I’m lucky to work here. But I wish I had a bag like theirs.

I don’t go in. But my shadow does.

It runs with them, like it belongs.

Maybe it wants to learn.

Maybe one day, I will too.

I stand here, waiting.

For the day my shadow comes back and takes me along.


By Roshan Tara


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