The Kishkinda Mine

The unfinished bridge stretched out before you, a stark symbol of neglected progress. Your motorcycle idled beneath you, its engine a low hum against the quiet of the Indian countryside. Frustration gnawed at you; this favor for a friend was proving more complicated than expected. You scanned the scene – the dark river, the tangle of rusted girders, the promise of a crossing forty feet short of completion.

Just as defeat began to settle in, movement caught your eye. A round, basket-like boat, a coracle, emerged from the shadows of the opposite bank, carrying two men. They pointed back the way you came, indicating a dirt path leading down to the river. Another coracle, laden with villagers and even a motorcycle like yours, followed, bobbing precariously on the water.

Reluctantly, you turned your bike and steered down the steep, muddy path. Reaching the riverbank, you cut the engine and faced the approaching coracle. The men stared, their expressions a mix of wonder and bewilderment. It took a moment to understand – your short hair, the motorcycle, you were a foreign woman alone, a sight they likely had never witnessed. Their gazes made you uncomfortable, a sudden, unwanted spotlight in this remote corner of India.