Strangers

STRANGERS

        Viren boarded a state transport bus in a hustle at 12 noon. Public transport always made him nauseous. His soon to happen UPSC exam could help him get rid of the state transport for good, he thought. His desire for a government job was ironical to the amount of disgust he had for the government amenities. He threw a quick glance at his reserved seat and found a seat-usurper on it. Blood rushed up to his face. He clenched his teeth. He knew only fights. Not the argument to his rights! The khaki lad bus conductor with a mouth full of tobacco juice was summoned, who then indifferently looked into the ticket, then looked at him from the upper rim of his glasses and tried to reason that it was a printing mistake on part of the booking office and that either of them would have to wait until 1.30 P.M for the next bus. Viren bluffed about his supreme exam and the coveted position he had applied for and argued that he be awarded an early departure. That girl sitting beside the seat-usurper, clad in a yellow Kurti, blue jeans, a chequered scarf around her and curious eyes watched him in awe. She watched the bright sunlight pouring upon his white shirt that lit up his face. She watched his irregular breathing and his irked demeanour trying to brush his fingers through the hair falling on his temples soaked in sweat. She watched him roll off his eyes the moment he looked at her. Her attention perhaps was the reason why Viren was conducting himself. But his body language assiduously meant to say that her presence did not bother him. Hesitantly he thanked the seat-usurper for offering him the seat and awkwardly settled near that girl. That girl!

A rough twenty minutes into the chaotic station and the bus pulls out in rage. A not-so-cool breeze from the window washed the sweaty passengers. The clinking-clanking bus conductor swam through the congested aisles and extorted money against tickets. Then a lull spread over. A few whispers, a few yawns, a few ringtones, a few hellos and a few goodbyes lingered in the air and then the bus fell silent. It just moved. The girl kept looking out the window. She was motionless. Viren was as uncomfortable as ever. His racing heart was trying to match its speed with the bus's speedometer. He was parched. He could feel his stomach turning. He could feel the motion-sickness begin. The bus stank of rusted iron and smoke. The reason for his disgust towards government affairs. She sensed his unease. She shut the window to restrict the sunlight that bothered him. By then he was profusely perspiring. He reached out to his pocket only to remember the forgotten handkerchief that hung on the drying wire. He wondered about the things a man forgets. Keys, umbrellas, handkerchiefs or perhaps a bag full of money. But memories...that's another business! A sweatdrop trickled off his brow onto his cheeks. His restlessness knew no sky. That girl, reaching out to her bag took out some paper tissues and held them in front of him. Hesitantly, he almost snatched them. He didn't thank her. He then placed the back of his head on the seat and tried not the think of the coup waging in his head while the bus moved swiftly.

Two hours later a bump on the road shook him out of his nauseous slumber. He found his head now resting on her shoulders. She was motionless. She kept watching the trees that passed by, the vehicles that whizzed past. The wind blew on them swaying her hair on his shoulders. Her delicate eyelids blinked a few times when she noticed he had woken up. Her heart rate was jacked too. He could tell. A strange commotion had surrounded them and they were in the eye of it. Closing his eyes he held back a tear and prostrated again on her shoulder. Escaping from the erratic feelings he tried to swallow back the lump of thirst in his throat. He was thirsty. She could tell. Disillusioned, she lowered her arms to the water bottle and gave it to him. He gulped it as always. He didn't thank her. Ill at ease, he looked into his watch. It was thirty minutes more to reach Mumbai. His nausea had settled. He gathered himself. He tried to take notice of her belongings and travel purpose but he did not inquire. She held a book in her lap. It was one of his favourite books. She pretentiously turned the pages of the book. He could tell. He didn't say. All he could do was think about the few hours of the journey. He silently thanked the usurper who left the seat with the sense of responsibility. Then he tried not to think about her. She was still not in the book. Her silence was now marked with intimacy. As if she could turn her head any moment and talk and laugh to her heart's content. Or hold him and cry perhaps! They kept looking out of the same window. Close yet cold. Emotions surged and fell back in the heart. Nothing being said. Ready-to-alight passengers now seemed unsettled in their seats. Viren sat upright holding his ruck-sack against his chest. The bus pulls off the highway and comes to a stop in a corner. The front door opens with an airy hiss. He is about to rise when he hears her wishing him good luck. Panorama of life bewitched him. He swallowed that lump in his throat and with that the past that it had upwelled right from the bottom of his heart. He didn't thank her. He rose to his feet, walked a few steps away. Stopped. Came back. And fighting back that every tear, pushing aside that lump in his throat, with difficulty, looked into her tear-ridden beautiful eyes and said, "Maaya, the last time I bid you good-bye we both thought we'd die without each other. Yet we live. How mistaken we were in love!" He got off the bus and went out of sight.