ONLY YOU
The conductor had perfectly ruined the moment I’d been eagerly awaiting. As I fumbled for my wallet in my left pocket, I stole a glance at her. She was rummaging through her brown leather bag, searching for change. Noticing her struggle, I mustered a sense of generosity and said, “Can I pay your fare, ma’am?”
She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and smiled. “No, sir, it’s quite all right,” she replied softly.
That smile, the way she called me “sir”—I knew she recognized me. A wave of joy surged through me, a tingling satisfaction I couldn’t explain. She remembered me! My heart sang.
“One ticket to Rawatpur,” she told the conductor.
My stop, Kalyanpur, was just one stop after hers. The realization filled me with an inexplicable thrill, as if the universe was conspiring in my favor. Suddenly, the chaos and hustle of the crowded bus didn’t bother me. The usual headache of its clamor faded into the background.
After we both got our tickets, she sat as she had before, but without a book in her hands, her gaze fixed straight ahead. I stood, gripping the pole near her seat. Next to her sat an elderly woman, her face pale and wrinkled, perhaps eighty years old, clutching a walking stick. Every time I thought to speak to Asha, the old woman’s piercing stare stopped me cold, as if she suspected I was some creep trying to charm a beautiful girl.
For nearly ten minutes, we remained like that—me standing, her sitting, the silence between us broken only by the gentle breeze from the open windows and the cacophony of cheap Bollywood songs blaring from the bus’s half-broken music system. The courage I’d gathered to break the ice had vanished under that woman’s deathly glare.
Then, the breeze turned to droplets of water. Rain began to fall, and a stray drop hit my face. Asha struggled to close the rusted window shield to block the water, but it wouldn’t budge. Seizing the chance, I said, “Let me help, ma’am. It’s rusted; that’s why it’s stuck.”
To my relief, the old woman didn’t glare this time. I leaned toward the window, closed to Asha. Her sweet, perfume-like scent filled my senses, intoxicating. The more I tugged at the stubborn window, the more I wished time would freeze. Finally, after a third try, the window slid shut, and I returned to my spot by the pole, my heart pounding. Never had I wanted to talk to someone more than I did her.
The bus jolted to a stop. “This is my stop,” the old woman announced. She rose, steadying herself with her stick in one hand and Asha’s arm in the other. I stepped forward, offering to help her cross the chaotic street. When we reached the other side, she patted my head with trembling hands and said, “May God fulfill all your wishes.”
Her blessing warmed me, especially coming from someone who’d eyed me so suspiciously moments ago.
When I returned to the bus, I froze. Asha had placed her bag on the old woman’s seat, saving it for me. My heart raced—astonished, nervous, speechless.
“You can sit here, sir,” she said, her voice soft but clear.
The air was cool now, with rain pattering outside. The bus’s music system had mercifully given out, leaving only the soothing sound of raindrops. Clearing my throat, I ventured, “You recognized me, didn’t you?”
She turned, her eyes locking onto mine, making my nerves jangle. “Yes, sir,” she said. “How could I forget? You let me into the bank after hours that day. That 5,000 rupees was so important to me. Thank you.”
I looked away, flustered, and mumbled, “It’s nothing, really.”
Wanting to keep the conversation alive but cautious of prying, I asked, “By the way, your name, ma’am?”—though I already knew it.
“Asha Bose,” she replied. “And yours?”
“Rajesh Verma.”
I longed to say more, but the silence between us felt heavier, more meaningful than words.
“Rawatpur! Rawatpur!” the conductor bellowed.
“My stop,” Asha said, standing. “Could you make way, please?”
I stepped aside, watching her move toward the stairs. My heart ached, as if pricked by a needle. As she reached the steps, something in me snapped. I called out, louder than I intended, “Asha! Can we meet again?”
She turned, pulling her pallu over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed pink as she smiled. “Of course,” she said, “if destiny wills it.”
Dear readers, do you think they will meet again?
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