I was rushing towards the exit when I saw her. She stuck out because she was out of place. Head to toe clad in some garments which looked tattered and torn. Shoes in her hands. Mascara running and hair drenched in rain water. Was it a wild night out that did it to her? The sea of people were flooding in and out of the modern tube lit by contemporary art and collage work. There were hues of red, yellow and blue. The marble floor was cleaned by the soles of dirty shoes and I could see her depressing shadow reflecting back. It was a split second. I didn’t stop. I walked on as all the others. But the image got stuck. It never left me since. There is a vague memory of a busker singing an upbeat song at the bottom of the escalators and I thought how odd the tune was. Like a badly edited movie compared to the tramp lady. She was not young or old. She was at that non-descript age. What was her story? The inquisitive in me still think about it when I pass through a ridiculously lit underground station.