Raju was fifteen, and in love with Jennifer madam. She had come to help her mother run the orphanage.
He knew she liked him too. He remembered how she had held his hand and cried when five year old Pinky had died of typhoid.
Now, clutching a white rose, oiled hair slicked back and wearing his best shirt, Raju entered her office.
He saw her and smiled.
Then, he saw the young man standing beside her desk.
“This is my husband, Steve.” she explained.
Raju felt the sting of tears. Damn! There was a thorn on the stem and it hurt!