Bus-stop hung like bee-hive over sleepy township. Two women and I, five junior school kids, someone’s grandpa. The girls, careful of their gait, ironed-skirt pleats. Boys, throwing sand over each other’s shoes. We preen. Only the milk-van. I wonder if my littlest has just woken up at home, wailing, husband snoring. A cycle-rickshaw passes, newspaper boy shoots past. We check our watches. It is past time. Two girls jog by, dog ambles. Honk-honk. School bus screeches to a halt. My boy doesn’t wave, the girls peer out of windows as long as it takes the bus to turn the bend.
Mandira Pattnaik is a mom. She is also the author of over a hundred flash stories and poetry published across the globe. Loves the sea and rains. Find her on Twitter @MandiraPattnaik.