Her strangeness is specific. Whenever she has a crush, her dreams begin stray in. She does not dream of running around trees, blushing or holding hands. She dreams of a life after her man is dead. She dreams of widowhood.
"Never let anyone look at you awkwardly", rang her grandma. She always wore a duppatta fastened with safety pins. They came handy when she dreamt; to pop off those bubbles that were immoral.
This time she likes a guy from the neighboring class. They exchange glances. Her dream bubbles begin. She could ... pop! She could marry him. She could ... pop! She could have children. Probably she wouldn't. Her man is mortal. She could then wear crisp cotton sarees. She could walk upright. She could sink into a world of comics. She could write of anything. She could spend hours by her bookshelves. She could have her own kitchen, probably with her parents sharing it. She could live with her parents. She could sing off-pitch and dance out of beat; No one to please. There shall be none to convince of her worth. She could let her children grow up with no moral heave. They could ... pop!
She could not have had children.
Single mothers may adopt. She could adopt a child. A girl-child, who knew no blood-lines; family-histories of morality, who would drag no safety pins along.