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“But he’s never hit me”, said Sandhya as she folded the pile of underwear with origami-esque deliberation.

“Oh? Is that what we’re waiting for now?”, bellowed Varsha, fat onion tears soaking her flushed cheeks while she tossed the purple slivers into the angry oil.

“I’ve stopped waiting for things”, mumbled Sandhya, burying her nose into the freshness of dinosaur pyjamas. Was it Ocean Escape or Island Breeze?

Varsha fished for the slippery lid bobbing in the pool of dangerously crimson masalas. “Is this what you really want, Sandhya?”, she sighed, madly chopping an oversized potato to compensate for the unexpected snort of red chilli powder.

Sandhya leaned against the frost on the window, smiling, “It’s what I’ve got”. She snuggled into the flower bed of last spring’s marigolds, growing cigarette-butts faster than weeds, wrapped in her favorite black sweat-shirt. She combed her fingers across the dead earth while the skies shed their flaky dandruff on her foetal form.

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