The Rickshaw Wallah

Han Ru Li doesn’t want to hail a rickshaw, but the narrow side streets are knee-deep with filthy water and a taxi will never do.

It is mid-August, the height of the monsoons. Han Ru considers going back inside the hotel to wait for a break in the storm, but then he imagines his father’s body laid out on a table in the middle of Eldest Brother’s front room, the ice blocks slowly melting, dripping through the cracks in the cement floor.

No more delays—he’s come so far already.