Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes that look strange over his discoloured shirt and shorts. "Someone gave them to me,� he says in the manner of an explanation.
The fact that they are discarded shoes of some rich boy, who perhaps refused to wear them because of a hole in one of them, does not bother him. For one who has walked barefoot,
even shoes with a hole is a dream come true. But the game he is watching so intently is out of his reach

This morning, Saheb is on his way to the milk booth. In his hand is a steel canister. �I now work in a tea stall down the road,� he says, pointing in the distance. �I am paid 800 rupees and all my meals.�
Does he like the job? I ask. His face, I see, has lost the carefree look. The steel canister seems heavier than the plastic bag he would carry so lightly over his shoulder. The bag was his.
The canister belongs to the man who owns the tea shop. Saheb is no longer his own master!