Reflections: Longing

[This is a part of my short story series called Reflections. There are three stories that are a part of this series. They are unrelated except for their common setting.]

I see her every day. She enters the bus at the stop after mine. I watch her mesmerized by even the smallest gestures she makes. I don’t know what it is about her. Is it the way she idly runs her fingers through her hair or how she laughs or how she smiles at just about everyone she sees? No. It’s everything about her. She gets off at her college while I wait on route to my own. It’s been this way for a year now.  I have fought the urge to talk to her long enough to believe its best I don’t. Maybe this is how it’s meant to be. Maybe I am just meant to admire her from afar and carry on knowing that we’ll never have those conversations that I have had with her in my head. She probably has them with someone else already. Someone else. And to him the sound of her voice and her laughter must be as commonplace as the sound of birds in morning. But not to me. Isn’t it ironic to long for something enchanting to be commonplace?  Maybe in another life we’re meant to meet and cross the threshold between being strangers to being friends and maybe even more. But for now it’s like we’re separated by a two way glass mirror. I see through the glass and I see her looking my way but on her side she stares at the glass only to see her own reflection. 

Reflections: Guilt

[This is a part of my short story series called Reflections. There are three stories that are a part of this series. They are unrelated except for their common setting.]

I take this bus every day. But today just feels different and I don’t know why. I look around for a seat. A young lady gathers her things and gets ready to leave. The bus comes to a stop and she rises and I take her seat. The old man in the seat beside me throws me a familiar smile. Since I take this bus on a daily basis I have become familiar with the other regular passengers. It’s funny I don’t know his name but we smile at each other every day and on occasion we’ve engaged in small talk about the weather and cricket. Today he just smiles at me and shuts his eyes to take a nap.

 And then I drift off into a reverie. A scene from last night plays back in my mind. In the dim kitchen lighting I search through the medicine box. All I find is empty packets of tablets and small covers made out of newspaper. I look up to see my brother’s wife standing over my shoulder, her eyes begin to well up. She holds some money out to me. One hundred and twenty three Rupees. I have around Rs. 200 saved. The total is far from enough as the monthly bill for medicines came up to around Rs. 1500. She starts to cry I reassure her that I’ll get the money and buy the medicines. A promise I am not sure how to keep.

My younger brother has been sick for about a year now. My wife and I work as construction labourers and my brother’s wife works as a maid.  We pool in our earnings to support both our families. We’ve been managing to get by so far but the last month had been tough. My brother’s condition worsened and he had to be hospitalized. Any money we had saved, jewelry that we owned was all put towards paying the bill. He showed signs of improvement and was then discharged from the hospital 4 days later.

I sink into my seat in worry. I glance sideways. The old man has drifted into a deep slumber. His heads falls. The bulge in pocket catches my eye. I quickly scan the other passengers to ensure no one was looking our way. I slip my hand into his pocket and extract his wallet. He doesn’t flinch. I get up to leave. I know there’s a good chance his wallet may not have enough money to cover the bill but maybe with a little more money I could buy enough to last my brother another 10 days.  I never believed there was a grey area between right and wrong but desperation

led me right to it. That still doesn’t explain the unsettling feeling at the pit of my stomach. I make my way to the front of the bus to get off at the next stop. I catch my reflection on the doors, the sight of the bulge in my pocket fills me with disgust for the man I see, the man I’ve become.

Reflections: Loss

[This is a part of my short story series called Reflections. There are three stories that are a part of this series. They are unrelated except for their common setting.]

I take this bus every day. The stops don’t interest me, I am just hoping to relieve the routine you had. I know it’s not going to bring you back but maybe it would take me closer to you. I scan the faces I see entering hoping that I could see you with your backpack. Do you remember how I used to say that your backpack made you look less like a working man and more like the little boy I used to take to the bus stop? Maybe you still remember that but I’ve been forgetful since you left. I forgot that I no longer needed to pack a lunch and send it with the Dabbawala. He would look at me with a mixture of discomfort and sorrow and then apologise saying he couldn’t deliver it anymore. You were a very forgetful boy too. I can recount days when I had chased you onto the street before you got into the bus with something you left behind. But this time it’s not your phone or your watch that you left behind. This time it’s me. And I’d chase you if I knew where to run. Death is indeed alive. It feeds on the living. I stare at my reflection in the window. I feel myself growing smaller day by day and the void in my life seems to grow bigger.