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April 2016, vol 12 no 1

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Yesha Shah

Dear Diary


We were running late. The exam began at nine.

Skies were ominously overcast and the moment we stepped out it began pouring heavily. Our palms ached from trying to hold the umbrella steady. The two of us tried to walk as fast as we could without slipping in the brown-red puddles, our dupattas fluttering wildly behind us.

Bus 9F arrived, overcrowded as usual. It would take us to our destination stop, Nanthoor, in twelve minutes…a roller-coaster ride through the undulating roads of the city that would leave us smelling like a mixture of deodorants, beedi-fumes, sweat and rust.

And there he was, standing at the stairs of the bus, smugly. Balding, pot-bellied lecher − baring his tobacco stained teeth at us.

grade five picnic
I teach her
about good and bad touch