While walking along the shores of the Dhobikhola, a rather noisome place that is basically an open sewer, I stopped by a secluded bridge for a smoke. From across the shore, I saw her, so beautiful, the undulating figure of a woman, resting against an electrical pole by the banks of the river. I would have waved and she might have even smiled but she had no arms or head to speak of—she was a sculpture after all, the kind that might have made Pygmalion blush. Even from afar, I could tell the workmanship was exquisite and my first thought was that the statue was probably an unfinished reproduction of a historical work made at a nearby workshop.
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