The Bus Stop

Lalitha knew she was already late because the news was over and film songs had started over the radio. She deftly pleated her pale pink cotton sari (which she knew was a bad choice, considering that she was so late), stabbed a giant safety pin into the pleats and her matching petticoat, and snapped it shut. Tucking the loose ends of her sari so that it sat taut, smoothing the stubborn pleats one last time, she plucked a bindi off the bindi pock-marked mirror, and slapped it onto her forehead. A last dab of her favourite sandalwood powder wrapped up her two-minute session in front of the mirror, and she grabbed her bag while slipping on her worn black slippers.

“Amma, I’m going!”
Her mother came out of the kitchen, and thrust the steel lunchbox wrapped in plastic into her hands.

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