Hot Yoga
The continuity of the grey and black; smoky aura of the iron foundry was broken by the contrasting orange flames of the furnace in its center. The heat of the flames and molten metal, as it poured into moulds seemed to him so analogous to the fire within himself, moulding him into a lifeless piece of cast iron. Ramesh felt as if a part of his being was poured into the moulds as he saw droplets of sweat from his brown body mix with the grey liquid metal. In moments of self-pity he cursed the poverty and hunger that seemed to have forced him into this hot labour; where day by day his body melted in this fire to the lure of meagre wages that summed to some four thousand rupees a month. This was just enough to fill the four bellies in his family but not sufficient for him to send his children to school. With such an income it was difficult to dream big, but dreaming as such has no costs, so luckily Ramesh could afford to dream. Across the street, just opposite the foundry was the ‘Hot Yo