The Bus That Never Came

The Bus That Never Came

I notice people the way you notice a leak in the ceiling.

You don’t look for it. But once it’s there, you can’t not see it.

For four years, my leak was an old man at the bus stop.

6:17 PM. Every Tuesday.

Grey shalwar kameez. Faded to the color of dust.

A white plastic bag in his left hand. Always empty. I know because the wind turned it inside out once.

The first winter I saw him, I was new to the city and tired all the time. I asked.

"Chacha, kis bus ka intezar hai?"

He didn’t turn. Just kept looking down the road like it owed him money.

"Jis mein meri beti jati thi."

Then nothing.

The bus came. He didn’t get on.

After that I stopped asking. But I started timing myself to him.

If I reached at 6:10, he was already there.

Rain: his shalwar cuffs would be black with water. He never moved under the shed.

Eid: new chappals.

Fridays: ittar.

Sometimes he talked to the empty bench.

"Late ho gayi beta?"

So quiet I wasn’t sure I heard it.

I told myself I didn’t care. He was just part of the stop.

Like the broken timetable and the chai guy.

Then one Tuesday, he wasn’t there.

The bench looked wrong. Too big.

The 20 minutes till my van felt longer. Like someone had stolen a minute from each hour and I couldn’t find it.

I checked the next week. Nothing.

The week after. Nothing.

By the third week I got angry at myself for checking.

I thought that was it.

People leave. Bus stops don’t remember.

Last Tuesday I was late. 6:19 PM.

And he was back.

Same grey kameez. Same bag. Same way of standing like he was bracing for something.

My chest jumped.

Stupid.

I opened my mouth to say "Chacha—"

He turned.

He was young. 24, maybe. Clean shave. Earphones around his neck.

The kameez fit him now. He held the bag with both hands, like it was heavy.

He saw me and gave a small, tired smile.

The kind you give to a stranger who’s seen you cry.

"Kis bus ka intezar hai?"

The words came out before I could stop them.

He looked at the road, then at me.

"Jis mein mera baap jata tha."

Same sentence.

Different ghost.

I had a hundred questions.

What happened? Where? Why the same bag?

But the bus pulled in.

Brakes screeching. People shoving.

He didn’t move.

I didn’t either.

He got on the next one.

I got on mine.

All the way home I kept thinking about that bag.

What do you put in it when you’re waiting for someone who isn’t coming?

Air.

And four years of 6:17 PM.

I don’t use that stop anymore.

I walk 10 minutes extra.

But my phone still buzzes at 6:17 PM sometimes.

And for half a second, I think it’s him.

Texting to say the bus finally came.

It never does.