Prim and proper for the office, I started the bike only to have it look at me as if asking, “How would you like to die?” Its eyes were full of despair and hope. I didn't know that thus could happen. It had probably seen more of such emotions in the short life span than I had.
The hind legs crushed by a passing car; plastered to the tar of the road, I wondered if the chameleon felt like Jesus on the cross. I wondered if Jesus would have preferred a clean death. Did it want me to play its “savior”? “How would you like me to die?”
If I were Indian government, I would prefer it to get dehydrated in the sun, lose consciousness and then lose life in that lost consciousness.
I would not have blood on my hands, I thought; or on my bike tires for that matter as I carefully rode past leaving it to its certain fate.