Train was moving. In the moonless night. She felt something suddenly. It was dark inside the train so it was not visible. A hand touched her… It wasn’t her kid’s. Bigger. An adult’s. She pushed it back in shock with a light scream…

…His hands had reached deeper. It was damn dark. Nobody could see anything. But here was she, lying with her son while a man was massaging her passionately. She again tried a failed attempt to stop him. He didn’t move. His hands had done with throat and neck. His oily hand had now slid inside her… She again tried to explain him. Took his face in her hands and pleaded. To stop. He knew it was half-hearted. Kept moving his hand inside. Compassion had turned into passion. Sympathy had turned into ardour. Caring had turned into craving. The lines cleaving gentle friendly touch and passionate rub...