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On reaching there he saw a foreign woman lying on the ground struggling to free herself from four young vagabonds who had gagged her, held her hands behind her back and were trying to rip off her clothes.
The men managed to strip her, as the dim streetlight showed up her white flesh, her disheveled blonde hair, terror-filled eyes, frantically moving legs and uncontrolled attempts to scream for help. He moved closer to the vagabonds, took up a fighter’s stance and connected his fists with their faces and bodies.
The puffs of smoke rising from the circle were intoxicating. His new sadhu friend took Hari by the arm to one of the tents. The sun was setting and a cool breeze was blowing over him.
Spreading his legs on a tattered mat, resting his head on folded arms, he yawned and closed his eyes.
He took me around Insadong Street, where a lot of art, calligraphy, curios and other items are sold. I ventured into some art galleries and finally, when Basho and me had both worked up an appetite, we decided to dine in Caffe Little India.
The sounds of conch shells blowing in the vicinity awoke Hari in Haridwar.
Dawn was some time away, the birds were flying in flocks, their flapping sounds of their wings rising and falling as they twisted and turned around above the flowing river with its own rippling humming effect.
He re-imagined for the hundredth time the drama that had taken place on that traumatic dark night in Paharganj.
After finishing his evening shift in the Abba Hotel housekeeping department he had walked out of the hotel when he was distracted by a muffled scream of a woman emanating from the poorly-lit backlane.