The dark decay of her teeth adorn the hollows of her mouth, casually, like icicles hanging off eaves on cold wintery morning. Vasu was on board the Dadar express examining the singularity of her dental status in its tiny washroom mirror, standing lifted on her toes, looking for a change of countenance. There was none. She looked at it not with the concern of thought but merely with the diversion of appeal, a tendency of habit to investigate her most distinguishing feature. “Puchipallu Bombaikaari” (The Bombay girl with infested teeth) she thought to herself, as her maternal grandpa liked to tease her, running her tongue along the jagged edges of her mismatched incisors. The staggering sight did not bother her. Vasu was eight, a lot of things did not bother her. Her mother who stood outside keeping guard, knocked softly on the door, but Vasu did not open it right away, instead, she watched the train in motion through the toilet, a travelling gaping hole on the floor, on its way to a river town.