bus

The road was bumpy. He didn’t dare look over to his side, even though many people had been casting furtive, and others, not so subtle glances his way. The driver hadn’t said anything when he had carried his companion in on to the bus. He had been prepared to fight with him, to beg, and plead, and argue. He was a little relieved that he hadn’t had to. But he was also upset. No one understood, no one understood because no one knew. He wanted to tell someone, to share his sorrow. That was why he was going back. And for his son. He could hear the slight rasping breaths as his son struggled to breathe. He would die. And it would be soon.

The road was bumpy, the sun was harsh. Birds cawed overhead as they drifted lazily, and others frantically, the latter trying to find shade or cover or water. Whichever came first. The strong survived. The bus was lathered with smelly, old carpet on the seats. It itched when he put his head back, it itched when he rested against the seat in front. So he sat upright, a little stiffly. Uncomfortably. But what was worse was, he found his hand finding its way towards the seat on his right, grasping the other hand. His son would not know, the doctor had said. It didn’t seem he would. And every time he touched the cold hand, he imagined it being six feet under in a few days, and he did not want to. His heart died a little. They were maybe thirty minutes away. Sudden yelps. Shouts. Thud. Whines.

The bus came to a screeching halt, the passengers jolted out of their drowsy slumbers, or lurching forward in the opposite direction to the bus. Equal and opposite. They got out. Most of them did. He didn’t want to. But he did. He needed some air. His eyes lowered, he tried to avoid looking at the prone body of his son. 

They had hit some stray dogs. Three stray dogs. They were whining, tails between their legs as they slowly bled to death. He moved forward, as if in a trance and unafraid as the people around him held their breath, unafraid, he closed their eyes. He pushed past the crowd of people, went back, and sat in his seat. They trudged in slowly, avoiding him. The bus lurched forward. The engine letting out a throaty raspy sound in the hot subcontinental sun. He hugged himself, willing himself not to cry, and clenched tight his eyes. The black, the red, the pain he saw. Was worse than having them open. So he opened them. Warm liquid dripped down his hand, he wiped it away on his shalwaar. Was it that of the dogs? No, he realized it was his. His fingernails had dug into his skin. He focused on the pain. The physical was much better than the alternative.

The smell of stale chips, and the sound of crunching accompanied him as they pulled into a stop in the middle of nowhere. Which, conveniently was also where his village was located. He got out, arm around his dying son, and began the mile long trek to his gaoon.