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The first thing I noticed about the young man we came to call Kokila were his clothes. Not his sun-gold hair or his unreadable eyes, but his clothes.
There was nothing unusual about them. They were the clothes of any city dweller of Kollam; simple and without much ornamentation. But too clean, too new. Too ordinary. Even his sandals were so new the straps still held their stiffness, leaving red marks where they chaffed his slender ankles.
They were workman’s clothes. And this delicate creature was no workman. Nor a native of Kollam. Not with hair and skin so pale.
( Follow... )
There was nothing unusual about them. They were the clothes of any city dweller of Kollam; simple and without much ornamentation. But too clean, too new. Too ordinary. Even his sandals were so new the straps still held their stiffness, leaving red marks where they chaffed his slender ankles.
They were workman’s clothes. And this delicate creature was no workman. Nor a native of Kollam. Not with hair and skin so pale.
( Follow... )
