If it's a stage set for everyone, maybe I'm just behind the curtains, facing empty seats.
I'm here.
Present.
That much I know.
A thought I once hesitated over is real now.
There's an empty seat in front of me.
Mine feels empty too.
People walk past me, and sometimes past that seat. As they ignore us both, my eyes follow them. It feels easier to join in this way.
Some stop and wait. Others sit across the bench, scrolling and tapping.
One buys a bottle from a vendor. Another roams the platform, shouting with a tray of snacks.
No one pays attention—he's ignored, like the announcements over the PA system.
On the opposite side, an elderly woman lowers a sack from her head while a boy gently eases it for her.
This place... is crowded.
After a while, my eyes return to platform four, which is still empty.
With the cold seeping into my palms through the tiles, I lift myself a little and sigh.
The stiffness eases.
To my left, I see his fingers holding hers, her head resting on his shoulder—as if the delay didn't bother them much.
On the next bench, a kid sleeps in his mother's lap, legs stretched wide, unbothered.
She sits on the edge, gently patting his head.
Even with my eyes open, I can't bear the noise.
And somehow, they sleep peacefully.
I wonder how.
It's only eight in the morning. Yet the crowd thickens, and my chest tightens along with it.
Buses arrive everywhere—except here. It's always the same.
When it finally does, I stand. But seeing the number of people ahead of me,
I know I'm too slow.
By the time I get inside, every seat is taken.
At least there is space to stand. I find solace in that.
The conductor boards.
Before issuing tickets, he asks for change.
When my turn comes, I hesitate—I don't have any. The fare is thirty-four. I give him forty.
He returns a five-rupee coin and moves on to the next passenger without even looking at me.
That missing rupee becomes the price of his silence—one I pay to keep mine.
He whistles…
The bus moves.
So... what do I do now?
Should I stare out the window and watch the scenery pass, imagine myself as the hero who saves everyone from some ridiculous danger, or just scroll?
I reject all of it and look around.
Some passengers are at war for a little extra air: The back rows pull the glass forward; the front rows push it back—and it never ends.
If it were me, I'd have given up. But no one wants to settle for less.
A child stands on his own special seat, watching everyone—as if all of this exists just
to be watched.
My gaze drifts across the bus, row to row, reaching the driver's seat...
And then I notice her—a girl standing near the door.
Our eyes meet. For a few seconds, neither of us looks away.
I break first like a coward.
Tempted, I look at her again.
She welcomes me back with the same quiet curiosity. We both pretend this little game of staring is just another ordinary moment.
The bus stops.
A moment ago, everyone was still—now they're suddenly in a rush.
Outside, even more people swarm the door, waiting to get in.
I don't even try to move. Instead, the crowd carries me forward, pushing from behind.
I see her—she's already slipped free and is waiting to the side.
There's a thin line to pass through. I squeeze out and finally breathe.
My eyes find her again, but she's unaware of me.
She's looking at the door.
A few girls step off and walk toward her.
I see. She belongs to the slower side of the world,
the side that waits.
"Huh."
She glances at me and gestures with her eyes, as if she wants me to follow.
"I'm not there yet," I whisper, blinking.
This is my limit.
I turn away and cross the road.
The crowd walking, the vehicles moving, the shops opening—
my mind blurs it all out.
I straighten my back and walk faster.
This fifteen-minute pedestrian ordeal has two checkpoints: two lord Hanuman temples along the way—where I offer a quiet namaskar at both.
"But why? Once is enough," I told myself the first time.
"Do you ever complain when you get prasad twice?" my mind replied.
I can't win that one.
A few students walk slowly ahead, blocking the road. My rhythm collapses.
When they stop at a shop, I slip past them—almost running.
I pause and offer my respects at both checkpoints, then keep going, overtaking lonely walkers as I move along.
It's always easy.
I halt.
Shri. Guru Clinic—beside Sandeep Pharmaceuticals, a small, glass-fronted pharmacy with a faded board.
Inside always feels smaller than it looks from the outside. Glass counters everywhere; tablets, syrup bottles, and boxes of medicine stacked behind them.
"Ah, the foul cloud has arrived," Anil-dada says, waving his phone at me.
I rub my eyes.
They sting.
"Fuck you," I mutter, dropping my bag onto the table in the center of the room.
Anil is older, but on my first day I called him dada. He liked that more than "kaka."
I don't actually work here. My father asked Sandeep-kaka—the owner—to keep an eye on me for a while.
Old friends do favors like that.
Rupesh-dada sits near the cash table.
"Did you download the series?"
"Yeah. Remind me later."
I open my laptop. The screen feels harsher than usual.
My eyes water. I wipe them, but the burn stays.
"Did you even sleep?" Anil-dada asks.
"Yeah," I lie.
The day drags: customers, jokes, silence, more scrolling. Sometimes, my eyes close.
By evening, I pack up.
"So, last day?" Anil-dada says.
"Yeah," I reply.
Rupesh-dada pats my back. I hand him the pen drive.
"Don't get into trouble like last time," Sandeep-kaka says from behind.
"Otherwise we'll see you again—and I don't want that."
"I won't," I say.
I leave without nostalgia. No photos, no goodbyes. A whole year gone—and all I feel is relief:
a little distance from people.
The street feels different today.
Shops I ignored look welcoming.
Food stalls smell comforting.
But the crowd—
couples, families, students... consume everything.
I buy pani-puri from an empty stall, cradle it like treasure, and keep my eyes down while I walk.
It's evening. There's no point looking around.
The bus station is packed again. I don't worry much. I have four rupees in change this time.
There's no sign of that girl.
And that's fine.
I reach home. The key, safely waiting in the pot, is where it always is.
7:30 p.m.
I wash up, eat pani-puri, and while watching the TV I promise myself:
"Tonight I'll sleep early." I say it like a prayer.
And I believe it.