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Geralyn Pinto (INDIA)


The Clinic It is a clean, blue-tiled clinic. It’s the cleanest thing that Shukri has seen from as far back as he can remember.  It is also bone-chill. The air circulates in slow, shuffling gouts. Shukri doesn’t like the colour. Too many things in his fourteen years of life have been a shade of blue. Outside the windows, to the west, you can see the clarity of the Mediterranean Sea. It is a soft, rolling teal. But he prefers to look to the east where the city is sere and grey. The patients on the benches are lined up according to age and disorder. The oldest is a university student. He is twenty-one according to Dr Mustafa Ali’s records. The student twitches as though a fine electric current is making his nerves go crackle and pop. His eyes are focussed on the middle distance into which he keeps looking with…