She gets out, every evening, from her wobbly hut, sheltering her granny, at death’s door, her mother coughing through the smoke spreading from the chullah and her father, fed up of his life, having seen nothing but poverty.
Each day she cycles to the bridge- her escape from reality, the sky of her dreams, welcoming her with arms wide open, promising her more than she could ever have.
And then the clock tower bell strikes, echoing in all the four directions, as if awaking her to reality.
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