There she sat on this old dusty bench. In five years, she had taken the toll of ten. Sitting on this dusty bench she was indifferent to the persons running around on this busy Monday morning. Lonely in this mad crowd, now and then she would lift her head to reveal those eyes ravaged by this blank stare. It surprised me how eyes, without any expression, could express so much by expressing nothing. .
Her radiance had faded and next to her was a man holding a white plastic bag which was transparent and I could see a little box of powdered milk.
She seemed to be asking herself how she got where she was. In her early twenties, she was writing or had already written the last chapter of her life and sound asleep in her arms was a baby, ignorant of the turmoil haunting her mother. If I could ask the baby a question, it would be: ‘How is someone who is lost, help you find your way through life?’