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Red. The hue of war. Of danger. Of ominous forebodings. The traffic sign turned red signaling the traffic to stop. That was her sign too. A sign for her to amble through the arrested traffic asking for alms. To feed herself. And her six siblings. The dying rays of the sun, which had rendered the evening sky bloodshot, leered down upon her face. The red ribbons restraining her matted hair were aglow in the crimson sunlight.

Far ahead, he noticed the signal turn red, but didn't slow down the bus. He was far away. By the bedside of his ailing wife, in the dimly lit, dingy room of his double-roomed house in Daulatpur. He had barely been able to make ends meet since she has been diagnosed with her disease. Sitting at the side of the bed, his six year old Sonu was swinging her polio-stricken legs aimlessly, her crutches lying within an arms reach. It was her birthday today...

It had been his birthday yesterday. And what a night it had been. Sitting back in the artificially cooled interiors of his luxury car, staring absently out of the dark tinted window, he reminisced about the party while waiting for the light to change from red. The who's who of society had been there. And the entire event had gone without a glitch. After that had ended, he'd spent the night in a five star suite. With six children from his NGO. A shiver ran down his spine which had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

The heat during the day had been oppressing. The red hot sun had seemed ablaze. She was glad that it was finally over. Her dress was soiled by the sweat and grime of the day. The day had been productive - she had managed to earn a fistful of coins and was feeling satisfied. With her doll Gulabi clutched under her arm, she wandered from on vehicle to another, her little crooked fingers asking the questions and the movement of their heads answering back. Hungrily, she licked the beads of perspiration on her lip and moved on.

He glanced hungrily at his watch ti check the time till his shift concluded. He couldn't see how the future was going to unfold for his family. Everything seemed dusky. Everything seemed to be slowing down. He still hadn't slowed down the bus. His eyes rested on the idol of the deity on the dashboard. They became transfixed, ensnared by the hypnotic rhythm of the red lights dancing around its periphery. He closed his eyes to pray to God.

God was a farce. So was the NGO. He smirked. He considered it as his penance for the dastardly deeds he had done in business and otherwise. He was jolted out of his reverie by a tap on the tinted window. A young girl was standing outside begging for her livelihood. She was dressed in red rags, quite unlike the seemingly new doll she was holding. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a fifty rupee note and handed it over to her. Penance, he muttered, as he watched her turn away to leave.

It was Allah's atonement, she thought. Fifty rupees! Had anyone ever earned as much in a single day? A rush of emotions throbbed through her painfully-fast-beating heart. She was delirious with happiness. She had never ever even dreamed of seeing this day. She never saw the bus either.

He never saw the little girl. A muted thud and the sudden lurch of the bus shattered his trance. The passengers still seemed oblivious. Then suddenly the enormity of what had just happened struck him with the force of a battering ram. He knew what he had to do. Run. He jumped down from the bus, trying to avert his eyes from the ghastly sight. He stopped suddenly, bent below and picked up the doll - with her roughed cheeks and red lips. Then he jumped across the divider and disappeared into the oncoming traffic.

She had disappeared. One moment she was there and the next instant she wasn't. Had she been an angel? Someone was running away. He opened the door - and there she was, lying lifeless on the now red concrete road. And he suddenly realized - as he picked up her motionless body and carried it to the car - that this was going to be the first of his several acts of self-abasement.

She was declared dead at the hospital.

P.S. - Can someone suggest a title? I couldn't think of one.
P.P.S. - Celebrating an entire year of sporadic blogging. Happy Budday Blog!!