The alarm rings.
She sighs, "Oh God, not again," and gets up. A quick bath, a hurried breakfast—and then she steps out. Slipping into her shoes at the door, she rushes down the stairs, almost running, and manages to reach the bus stop just in time.
She caught the bus, although it was ten minutes late. That mattered to her; she neither liked to wait nor to be late. Finding a window seat, she put in her earbuds, rested her hands on her bag, adjusted her glasses, and looked outside comfortably.
Every day, something new appeared at every stop—those wall paintings, those showrooms, those signals. They were always there, visible every day. Yet today, something felt different.
An elderly woman with brownish hair, green bangles on her wrists, and a printed red saree that had faded a little, was sitting comfortably on a bench. Her bag lay nearby as she ate "Agra ka petha". There was a smile on her face—one that is rarely seen on people these days, gentle and pure, like the smile on a newborn's face.
Some say there is no novelty in old things. But today, seeing that smile, she felt how futile it is to try to bring a smile to our faces every day—one that we are slowly losing.
The bus started moving.
It had rained the previous day. A tree she saw every day had looked dry before, but today its beauty felt different. New leaves had appeared, making it stand out among all the others.
As the bus moved a little further, she realised her stop was about to arrive—
but her journey was still continuing...