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 is empty too.
People walk past me, sometimes past that seat.
They ignore us both. My eyes follow their steps—it's the easiest way to join them.
Some stop and wait. Others sit across the bench, scrolling and tapping at their phones.
A man 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 down for her.
This place is crowded.
After a while, my eyes return to platform four. No bus. 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, a man's fingers are tangled in hers, her head resting on his shoulder. The delay doesn't seem to bother them.
On the next bench, a child sleeps across his mother's lap, legs stretched wide and careless. She sits on the edge to make space for him, gently patting his head.
Even with my eyes open, I can't bear the noise.
Yet somehow, they sleep peacefully.
I wonder how.
It's eight in the morning.
The crowd thickens, and my chest tightens with it.
Buses arrive everywhere—except here. It's always the same.
When it finally does, I stand.
Seeing the number of people ahead of me, I already know I'm too slow.
By the time I step inside, every seat is taken.
At least there's space to stand.
The conductor boards, and before issuing tickets, he asks for change.
Those who have it hand it over politely. The rest receive a quiet word from him.
When my turn comes, I hesitate. I don't have any change.
The fare is thirty-four. I hand him forty.
He returns a five-rupee coin and moves on without a word.
For a moment I consider saying something.
But then I stop.
One rupee for silence is cheap.
He whistles. The bus lurches forward.
What now?
Stare out the window and watch the scenery slide past?
Imagine myself as some hero saving everyone from a ridiculous danger?
Or just scroll?
None of it feels worth the effort, so I look around.
Some passengers wage a quiet war for air. The back rows pull the glass forward while the front rows push it back again.
The battle never ends.
If it were me, I would have given up. But no one here wants to settle for less.
A child stands on his own special seat, watching everyone—as if the whole bus exists simply to be watched.
My gaze drifts across the bus, moving from one window to another seat, searching for something.
I don't know what it is.
Near the door, a girl stands holding the pole with both hands, looking outside.
Even in the thin whistle of air, strands of her hair keep escaping. Each time she tucks them back with ease.
Just as I'm about to look away, our eyes meet.
For a few seconds neither of us looks away.
I break first, like a coward.
I shouldn't—but I look again.
She welcomes me back with the same quiet curiosity.
We both pretend it's just another ordinary moment.
The bus stops.
A moment ago everyone was still. Now they rush all at once.
Outside, even more people crowd the door, waiting to get in.
I don't bother trying to move. The crowd carries me forward, pushing from behind.
She has already slipped free and waits to the side.
A narrow gap opens. I squeeze through and finally breathe in the empty space.
My eyes find her again, but she isn't looking at me. Her attention stays on 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 asking me to follow.
"I'm not there yet," I whisper, blinking.
This is my limit.
I turn away and cross the road.
The crowd moving, the vehicles passing, the shops opening—
my mind blurs it all out.
I straighten my back and walk faster.
This fifteen-minute walk has two checkpoints: two lord Hanuman temples along the way.
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.
Overtaking lonely walkers feels easy, as I make them fall back one by one.
Soon I reach Shri. Guru Clinic, beside Sandeep Pharmaceuticals. A small, glass-fronted pharmacy with a faded board.
Inside it 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.
"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 asks.
"Hm."
Rupesh-dada pats my back as I hand him the pen drive.
"Don't get into trouble like last time," Sandeep-kaka says from behind the counter. "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 used to ignore seem 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. This time I'm ready.
I have four rupees in change.
There's no sign of the girl.
And that's fine.
I reach home. The key is waiting in the pot where it always is.
7:30 p.m.
I wash up, eat pani-puri, and sit in front of the TV.
"Tonight I'll sleep early," I tell myself.
I say it like a prayer.
And I believe it.