there used to be a guava seller outside my school. he had a reputation also. there used to be double rows of dusty black boots on the pavement encircling his stall. now i cant remember his face. all i remember of him is his dexterous hand and the corroded steel knife. he let the  kids hand him over the fruit, which he tossed twice in his palm, half out of habit, and half out of joy. with the other hand, which incidentally had a mind of its own, the knife came into being. he used to meticulously cut the fruit into four almost equal part with his knife, with two quick cuts. next, he dipped the knife into a plastic container which contained a unique mixture of tropical salts. then he put the knife, pregnant with salt, in between the four pieces. he wrapped the fruit in a newspaper and served.

when reading Milan Kundera i have the feeling of being the guava in the fruit seller’s hand.

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