Punjabi ran along the road, rain dripping inside through the corrugated windows. The droplets drenched his leaning sweatshirt. The “his” in question, our hero, leaned against the window and was soaking in Rex’s brilliance, uncomfortably aware of all surrounding him. The conductor engaged in his usual mingling with the aunties in the front, two oldies in the back talking about a plot of land with their johnson dangling out from their dhoti, children chirping happily with the water bottle hanging on for dear life. A few remained silent, captivated by the scenic sounds the rain offered, captivated by Rex. Our hero was one of them, soaked.

“Kaahalangal kaathilaalum kaithadangal,

The five o'clock bus was usually the one he got on, but today, due to unexpected circumstances (his friends had forced him to stay longer rather than rushing home straight after class), he missed the bus, and what availed him was the six o'clock bus. Compared to the packed, sticky five o'clock bus, this was different, the passengers being few, the route avoiding dust and pollutants, passing through the paddy fields.

“Mavoor Mavoor,” the conductor shouted loudly, taking a break from the mingling. Tired from the classes and movement, our hero lost control and dozed off, his head getting drenched now.

Let us take this non-existent time to understand our hero better. Ahmed was a boy of sixteen, the shortest of his class, with dark hair covering his small dark eyes, a broad nose that went along well with his torn lips, and a skinny body. He was an aware boy, a shy and anxious person. When first entering the bus, he was angry, angry at his friends for making him late for his gaming sessions. Punjabi had changed his mood.

“Where to?”

Ahmed was woken up by the young, tall, and handsome conductor.

“Mavoor,” he replied firmly.

The conductor smiled at him; Ahmed grew tired; he knew the conductor was about to start a conversation with him.

“Do you usually go via this bus?”

“No, this isn't the usual bus I go via.”

The conductor pried once more, a bit confused now.

“So what caused the sudden change?”

“I was late for the five o'clock bus, the five-thirty was completely packed, and I was left out, so this was the only option.”

“And how is the ride?”

Ahmed decided to be kind to the tall, handsome, and bored conductor. He replied a bit enthusiastically.

“I was a bit doubtful at first, but it is really comfortable.”

The conductor was quick to question once more.

“What is comfortable about this rundown bus?”

“What isn't there to like about this? The coldness, the seats being available for all, and the playlist, my god!”

The conductor smiled and replied,

“The playlist is awesome, isn't it?”

Ahmed nodded with a grin that he thought wouldn't display his shyness. The conductor continued with evident happiness in his voice.

“I'm the one responsible for the playlist.”

“Aren't I awesome?”

He added on as if to hide his pride. It seemed to Ahmed that the conductor wanted to hide his pride by being a bit arrogant.

Ahmed replied affirmatively, not to hurt the conductor.

“It is really good.”

What was a dreadful conversation turned out to be something Ahmed liked and held dearly. The conversation continued on for the entire journey; how life turned out, football, school, and family were all discussed in the twenty-minute ride, and finally, the bus arrived at Mavoor. Ahmed put up a faint smile to show that he enjoyed the conversation, and the conductor replied similarly. The conductor was an unlucky man; what used to be a joyous childhood turned sour quickly with personal loss. His father had passed away in an accident, leading to him being a central figure at the age of 17. A quick transition to adulthood took him away from the grasp of luxury that childhood offered. What a sad and lonely man, thought Ahmed. As he was leaving the bus, the conductor shouted at Ahmed’s position:

“Edaa, what's your name?”

“Ahmed, what's your name?”

“My name is Vasu. Now onwards, go home via this bus itself,” he said with a cocky tone, to hide his loneliness and longing, it seemed.

Ahmed smiled and replied; It wasn't pretentious; it was from his heart.

“Yes, yes, let's see.”

He left Punjabi and boarded the next bus that would take him home, Hiba Salih. Ahmed was always reminded of a fond memory when getting on Hiba Salih, a memory where he was held by his mother, watching Hiba Salih go through the street of Oorkadave, shouting loudly, Hiba lachi is here, Hiba lachii is here. No matter how hard his mother tried, Ahmed never got the pronunciation right; he was adamant, for some reason, to never stop saying that.

And now another fond memory grew in his mind—Vasu and his Punjabi, real charmers—the charming music, the smell of earth spread everywhere, the soaked edge of the seat, they were all beautiful.

Ahmed sat at the back of the bus along with a couple of other kids and a few workers who commuted on this bus, as he wondered whether he would make the time for dear Vasu, whether he would indulge in spending time at Punjabi.

I know, Ahmed won't be meeting Vasu again. That's just how he is.

.    .    .