A mere carrying never makes a mother. A gynecologist observes soft feminine rhythms on a monitor. Currency conceals compassion. Hospital sweeper carries remnants of a plastic love in his black bucket. His squint-eyes are conditioned. Pulses pause unnoticed in the bucket. Just two hundred rupees bury his conscience. He seeks shelter in a dark arrack bottle. It’s a cold-blooded secret that people seem not to see. Abortion is an accepted murder. First published in The Literary Hatchet, issue #16, US.