“You are not a son of bitch but of a vixen.” A woman shrieked like a wolf on fire.  The sound of her fury swirled as ballerinas in white skirts spin their toes on the floor. I  turned my head to the left side to search the source of the sound.  A man, I saw, had boarded the woman with two children, a girl and a boy, off in an auto rickshaw; then he left the stoppage without saying good bye.

“How dare him!” shouted the woman with such an uproar that I got startled.

“How can he lock us into a cap-less bottle, and throw us in a deep-dark sea?”  She said to herself.

The children behaved indifferently as there was nothing new to them, things happened like that every day, like breathing like sleeping.

I asked why her man had acted so inconsiderately; the woman was panting and taking deep breath to relief her anger and could not say a word in response; therefore, she remained silent-

as if silence says many words,

as if silence gives the ways, the opportunities to make the answers for oneself,

as if  silence decides what should be spoken.

“It’s Friday.”

“And he has no emergency. Doesn’t he know how difficult it will be to go miles away with two such little children?” She stopped her talking.

“Alone,” with a deep sigh she muttered.

The woman continued her talking to herself holding the fingers of the right hand of the little boy tightly with her left hand and the little girl was sitting on her right side drinking mango juice.  I was sitting on the opposite seat, looking at the face of the woman who was staring at dead-opened skies through her open-ended anger of abandonment and pain of helplessness, I could see the vermilion of her lips and the irises of her eyes tinged with red- the color nearly similar at the core – a lurid vibration spread over them. Inside I trembled a little bit as if a sudden touch of anything could fall her apart.

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