We met Shoba at Narayanguda. She was cooking lunch with scraps (the head and feet of a chicken that she had salvaged from the dustbin near the meat store).
She had managed to light up a modest fire with a few twigs and leaves, right next to a public toilet, and was trying her best to cook the meagre scraps. No one stopped to bother her. No one seemed to care.
Ironically, some people thought that she was performing some sort of black magic, an offering to the Gods. Little did they know that this was her daily bread, her routine. The only way she could survive on the streets.
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